


Between The Lines

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Jimlockian, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything Moriarty does is about showmanship and Sherlock is his sole audience; It is engaging, thrilling and it keeps him more than occupied, but in the quiet aftermath Sherlock feels dullness setting in.. The moments he most enjoys are those deep in a challenge, two feet in a bloody case with John at his side and Scotland Yard left in his wake. The mad Irishman makes those moments happen so much more frequently, he is the perfect match...</p><p>Follows BBC show canon plot, weaving in Sheriarty/Jimlock, also infused with ACD canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After The Great Game

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> Some quotations taken from BBC Television program Sherlock, on which the plot is based around. This is trying to be as close to canon BBC Sherlock as possible while accounting for Sheriarty AKA Jimlock. 
> 
> Some titles link with BBC show titles to clue you into chronology as I try to mesh with the show, and other chapter titles are all based on canon Doyle titles.

Chapter one takes place following the first season (and technically, the conclusion of the pool scene at the start of episode 4, A Scandal in Belgravia, but BEFORE Irene Adler's appearance is made). This is as canon as possible, minus, well, the Sheriarty/Jimlock implied relationship and the forthcoming shagging, of course..  
  


* * *

 

CHAPTER ONE - After The Great Game   


“Look, sir, they said you're the best and – and I'm willing to pay half of whatever you recover, so could you take the case?” Said the exasperated teen from his stiff position, feet shoulder length apart as he had just stood up from the couch after recounting his tale.  


“Would – would I take the case, because of course yes, I could.” Sherlock corrects pedantically in a bored tone.  
  
This response emotionally dislodges the teenage boy in front of him. “Would you?” He meekly amends.  
  
“You want us to reestablish your employ, for an equivocal discharge, of a peculiar occupation?” The droll mocking in Sherlock's tone is so thick John feels pity for this kid, even if he finds the idea as ridiculous as the story. The newspaper clipping on the coffee table is peculiar, sure, but not worth Sherlock's time. Yet John is surprised to find Sherlock wave a hand at the man in about as obliging a way as the world's only consulting detective could manage, “Interesting. Continue.”  
  
Sherlock Holmes is a unique individual, to put it lightly. Not as most people assumed just to look at, but those slender features, sharp cheekbones, alabaster skin and ethereal gorgeous light blue eyes, did make him a fine physical specimen as well. Yet, his attractive lanky physique was a secondary thing to his true majestic quality; It is Sherlock's interminable mind, his plentiful intellect, that sociopathic driven force of brilliance, that is Sherlock's source of charm.  
  
“Who told you about the advertisement?” Sherlock probes him after a bit more detail on the story of the boy's after school job as a video game tester. He had a few more questions to follow, for reasons unfathomable to the doctor – questions about the boy's friends, rather more social than Sherlock's usual.  
  
“Would you take the case?” Implores the demure-eyed student named Wilson, who wanted answers as much as he wanted payment. Sherlock accepted, to the boy's whooping delight, who shook his hand while the detective remained impassive towards him until it cooled his glee enough to send him away.  


To the militant doctor's surprised stare, Sherlock merely nods curtly, “Refreshing, John.” The crispness in his voice tells John Sherlock is already kilometers away in thought.  


* * *

  
  
When John returned with groceries Sherlock was leaning forward against his desk, elbows perched on the edge of it as his bright eyes scanned the web page before him. Brows furrowed in concentration while his fingers laced together in a prayer-like motion, although they were clenched too tightly for it to look like any kind of holy. Slender nose resting on his fingers, and remaining there as he did not move when John came back into the flat with both hands laden with two large brown paper bags.  
  
John glances at him but says nothing beside a greeting that goes unanswered – Sherlock is in thought, and it was not like he was much of a help putting things away when he was not completely consumed within his mind palace anyway.  
  
He is not a man. Sherlock Holmes is a whirlwind, that you had to experience – you lived in the moment with his presence, but you did not know him. Nobody could get close to that haughty enigma. Nobody could know him, not truly. The one who came closest was Mycroft, but no matter how much surveillance he had at his fingertips not even he realized the breadth of his brother's cerebrations, especially the depth of that gaping maw of boredom.  
  
Nobody came close to understanding, until John Watson appeared on the scene, leaving the battle in the desert for one under a London raincloud on the heels of a madman with lengthy ebony locks.  
  
From their first case, a study in pink, Sherlock had deduced that John had inklings of romantic feeling for him. Besides the obvious physiological tells or the fact that John had shot a man for Sherlock within hours of meeting him, John had come all the way across town only to find out he was called back just to send a text, and he still sent that text. That was devotion. The look of laughter in his eyes when Sherlock joked with him, and only him, made coming all that way worthwhile. It was something Sherlock could not miss with his deductive prowess - That was why directly after that, he warned the military man off him in Angelo's.  
  
Although, John had not let himself admit anything consciously and he fluffed the warning off as a misunderstanding. Sherlock had quashed it too quickly for him to realize, and John had now grown content. John had forgotten about that first awkward moment, content with things as they were and likewise, Sherlock grew complacent.  
  
After all, it was all transport to Holmes. It was not like it was John, it was the world; Sherlock is married to his work, and friendship is more than enough (in fact, he had never had it before). Biology is immaterial to him, outside of using it as to prove some evidence.  
  
That was why after finishing putting away his recent shop, when John sat down in the red chair with a mosaic sort of stitching within it, Sherlock began to ramble on at him and John let him. It was something they just did, like clockwork. He put forward his feet, resting comfortably in the first chair he had sat in at 221b Baker Street, now feeling completely at home with his absurd flatmate. The nonsensical yet soothing babbling was full of jargon and half-explained thoughts sensible only to Sherlock, but John listens astutely anyway.  
  
The militant doctor glances over at him, noticing the way the goose neck lamp bathes his roommate's face in an eerie glow, highlighting those prominent cheekbones. Even without such a distraction John has no hope of keeping up with Sherlock's theorizing, but it hardly shows as he leans back against the red fabric to listen, offering minor comments that Sherlock ignored or used as fodder for a new rant. The evening settled into a pleasant albeit repetitive one with John making the tea, and Sherlock prattling on about the current case.  
  
Sherlock is murmuring about a dubious organization likely responsible for the 'case' he was investigating, wondering why that job advertisement geared itself toward not just geeky types, but that particular boy's profile to the letter. He had pinpointed some facts that were so obvious they screamed at him, but he could not draw outright conclusions yet. The large yet slender hands lifted, fingers pivoting to rest on his temples and rub slow circles in to help him think by increasing blood flow. To aid that further he tilts his head back slowly.  
  
Then John Watson does what he always does – he says something wrong, or stupid, or incorrect in the present context – and Sherlock feels that twinge of irritation. It is fainter then when anyone else does it, but it still registers. His awareness is too piqued to miss a vernacular faux pas, it always is. There is no acknowledgement, physically or verbally, but deep down he knows that no matter how often John asks all the right questions he throws in a handful of dull pointless ones.  
  
“I need to go out, John.” Sherlock announced abruptly rather than explain why John was wrong and he was right. He is off in a whirl of coat tails and leaves John staring, dark eyed and perplexed yet uncertain as to just why.  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock Holmes walks down the lengthy unobstructed sidewalk outside 221b, heading down the expansive lane without any particular destination indicated by his posture. Nobody else would know that but him, and he bitterly recalls this fact while turning up the collar on his lengthy black Belstaff coat. The dark coarse-looking fabric not offset by a scarf this time as the weather is beginning to warm.  
  
As he walks he passes by advertisements, shop windows completely covered, a thousand stimuli and he takes in none of it, unlike the people around him. Filling their funny little heads with such drivel. He felt suffocatingly alone among those lesser minds surrounding him.  
  
Of course such thoughts lead him to think of one being, a newfound madman only capable of being classified as an enemy based on the present data; James Moriarty. Also the only commensurable possibility, intellectually speaking.  
  
Moriarty is a gestalt puzzle for his mind to turn over and see in a new light, except he never sees a rabbit or duck, he sees something exciting and new. Moriarty is the singular intellect comparable to Sherlock's own, for that reason alone he was worth taking notice of, but Moriarty also used his intelligence in amazing ways – not good for mankind, but marvelous feats nonetheless. This was not a normal application of intelligence that uses it to get into the best school and become the top of his field, this was attention grabbing, this was showmanship.  
  
Everything Moriarty does is about showmanship and Sherlock is his sole audience. It is engaging, thrilling and it kept him more than occupied, but now in the quiet aftermath Sherlock feels the dullness setting in. The moments he most enjoys are those deep in a challenge, two feet in a bloody case with John at his side and Scotland Yard left in his wake. The mad Irishman makes those moments happen so much more frequently, he is the perfect match..  
  
However, the negative aspect of Moriarty cannot be ignored – he brings destruction, danger, death. For his own amusement. Much as Sherlock keeps a distance from any hinting of humanity he is not a psychopath, merely a high functioning sociopath, and the difference is profound. When Sherlock had cheered for a serial murderer it was because of the challenge – and honestly, he felt it was not as if he was doing any harm with them already murdered – but Moriarty is genuinely amused or intrigued, and worse he does not react to murder. Sherlock has a feeling Moriarty likes the sight of blood.  
  
How right Sherlock is, yet he is still missing something. The same way he often fails to comprehend basic human emotions, Sherlock now misses the basic crux of the issue between the two of them. As far as Moriarty is concerned it is time to fix that minor mental neglectfulness on the detective's part.  
  
Moriarty did not need to sit in the nearby shadows to watch his machinations unfurl and run wild. Instead he orchestrated from afar, then let them take on their own lives, always keeping them under his thumb. It was akin to fathering, or as close as Moriarty felt he would ever get to such rosy feelings. He is so confident in his ability to extrapolate that watching an outcome is a waste of his efforts when it always goes so perfectly according to plan...  
  
Or it was. Until Sherlock Holmes became involved. The deviant variable that came packaged in pale skin and looping dark curls. A tall lanky figure to offset Moriarty's shorter, fit yet undistinguished body. Physically perpendicular beings, with minds more in sync than two train rails lying side by side to form a track.  
  
  
Now Moriarty steps out of the shadows of a nearby alleyway, the movement catching Sherlock's eye. For some reason it does not surprise Sherlock to see the dapper dressed man standing there with a cool smile on his face. Moriarty is standing ready to play a role more thrilling than pulling the strings. The way Sherlock got a high from his cases, Moriarty gets a rush from Sherlock's interference.  
  
They stare each other down, Moriarty standing at the edge of the alleyway in his elegant thousand plus pound tawny suit, pinstripe vest with fob watch, and Dolce & Gabbana shoes. Each are larger than life yet no more than a man - First a whispered name, then a figure, and now a flesh and blood man before the both of them.  
  
“Do you like my game so far?” Moriarty nearly purrs out the words. It is a different attitude than what he had earlier yielded by the poolside. His Irish accent nearly made the words sound attractive.  
  
“It occupied me.” Sherlock replies, aloof, still studying his opponent. Multiple cases recently all leading to one name – Moriarty. Then came a slew of bomb-strapped victims. There is not much emotion behind his next factual comment, “You put lives at risk, for my attention.” The whole Jim from I.T persona was an obtuse part of their unsaid elaborate game; Two players and innumerable pawns.  
  
“Don't forget the thirty million quid.” His reply is curt and formless at once. Interestingly Sherlock cannot deduce the precise emotional basis of that response. Moriarty's tells are, like the man himself, not ordinary.  
  
“Why have you stopped acting through your marionettes?” The deep voiced detective is studying his shorter opponent through squinching considerate eyes. Sherlock could not miss the glaring fact that Moriarty has also risked himself by showing up in person; Working through puppets before then, being cautious and smart, so why risk himself by appearing now, when a text would be sufficient?  
  
“I told you, I'm so changeable.” Moriarty chuckles darkly and Sherlock can tell it is not his real laugh. “I decided the good Doctor stepped up too much earlier - I want to make it perfectly clear to you, my dear.” That stickily sweet voice was venomous, a honey coating over poison fangs. “It's a shame we were interrupted.”  
  
Sherlock waits for him to continue, keeping in a comment about Moriarty's choice of ringtone.  
  
“I want your attention. You can tell that, can't you?” The arch villain raises an eyebrow pointedly with his murmur.  
  
Considering all the people he has strapped with bombs for the past few days, it is clear he has drawn the detective's exclusive focus. Sherlock could also tell from his lilting yet clear murmur as they spoke of the recent past – the pool, after the bomb strapped victims – that Moriarty is exhilarated by this life-sized chess game, he got off on his Rube Goldberg-style chaos. Sherlock knew what it was like watching an addict get a fix, and Moriarty had every symptom. Obvious earlier, of course, but now it is palpable between them. Moriarty is gloating with an obnoxious look in his dark eyes and that lopsided smirk.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock's velveteen voice destroys that moment of silence, and delights rather than infuriates Moriarty.  
  
“I told you earlier Sherlock, patience!” Moriarty whispered with a sneer.  
  
“No, a man with a bomb strapped to his chest told me that.” Sherlock recalled their vicarious conversation perfectly. Moriarty had had that said right after the comment about them being perfect for each other – Sherlock could fathom their fitting intellects easily, but their morality was too far apart for him to feel anything but a thrilling uncertainty.  


The raven haired man's meticulous verbiage makes the slighter man laugh and Sherlock knows this soft trill of bemusement is not faked, and that knowledge sinks into his gut. This might be the first real characteristic Moriarty has shown him outside of madness.  
  
“We could be first class, you and I,” Moriarty's pondering out loud, his silken voice reminds Sherlock of a razor edge. This madman is exactly what the recently deceased old woman said – soft. The pompous man is pulling back on terror, working a new aspect of his personality in front of Sherlock. It was novel, almost engaging, but not anywhere near the height of thrill of being on a case. “That's why.”  
  
When he steps back into the shadows, turning on his expensive heel, Sherlock gives chase. Moriarty is lost amidst a car park to their left, and after a few fruitless minutes of skulking around the detective gives up. Instead of defeat, he feels like his enthusiasm has been recharged.  



	2. After A Scandal In Belgravia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-style Sheriarty/Jimlock.  
> Uses the second season's plot to support the story, so warning: SPOILERS!
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

CHAPTER TWO - After A Scandal In Belgravia 

 Sherlock Holmes feels perfectly exhilarated walking back to the flat. Dangerous, yes, incredulous, yes, yet his encounter with Moriarty was the most thrilling thing he had experienced since solving the slew of cases leading up to their pool encounter. This gave him a spike of energy akin to taking drugs, although it was on a less visceral level.  
  
Sherlock decided to use this adrenalin on his mind, pulling out the advertisement Wilson had left him with. The best course was plotted and quickly set upon by his long legs. So, it was not surprising that one hour and fifty-three minutes later he walks back into 221b, streams like a freight train up the stairs, and flings open the door with a prodigious announcement. “I've solved the case John. His stepfather.” Sherlock huffs, “So irritatingly easy!”  
  
“Sorry, what?” The good doctor looks up from his reposing position in front of the telly.  
  
“Their flat, John!” Sherlock cries with a sense of rewarded delight mixed with anger on the edge of toppling, appearing impugned that John was slowing him down to explain it all. John knew deep down this was part of Sherlock's victory lap. “It was always occupied; Wilson's stepfather worked from home on weekdays, and on weekends Wilson stayed home playing whatever-it-was.”  
  
“Xbox.” John looks nonplussed, but offers the word anyway.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation and continued his emphatic explanation in that soft masculine voice. “The advertisement was placed for Wilson's profile specifically, that was clear from the start, so the only route thereafter was to discover why.”  
  
“And you think this job was invented for him by,” Here John's words turn a bit sarcastic, “- The Geek Minded League – so that they could get him out of his own house?” There is a touch of apprehension to this explanation but he knows better than to doubt Sherlock by now.  
  
“You missed the obvious clues of his stepfather's real job.” Sherlock replies irksomely, and before he can rattle off a list of clues he has deduced his phone buzzes. Lestrade's name appears, with a summons for them to come to Scotland Yard. The previous conversation is not as interesting as all the possibilities of a brand new case appear.  
  
“What about-?” John feels caught up in a tidal wave of unexplained Holmes as he is pushed out the door.  
  
“Later, John. We have a case.” That high of anticipation is taking over. John could see the slight flare of nostrils and the glinting focused haze coming over Sherlock's blues.  
  
“But why did they-?” John begins to ask with a gentle curiosity about Sherlock unraveling the mysterious arrangement until Sherlock cut him off.  
  
“Searching the flat for where his stepfather had hidden it. Come on, John.” Sherlock's agitated voice leaves him behind in the stairwell, and John stumbles down the stairs before his movements become quick and assured. He does not continue asking what they searched for, feeling the usual anticipation, and some sort of distance from Sherlock as they stand waiting for a cab.  
  
The air within their cab is thick with a tension John is not used to. It is not an air of danger, that would be normal around the two of them, this feels like Sherlock is absent even though he is sitting right next to John. It is peculiar and unsettling, for all Sherlock's blunt single-mindedness in going about a case, he has always brought John into the light by the end. This time, Sherlock does not feel like elucidating for the doctor's benefit. John says nothing, finding the silence between them off putting.  


* * *

 

Oddly, the case was not as engrossing as Sherlock desired it to be. Lestrade gets a few sniping comments about photographs of the body out of him before he swept from the room with John hot on his heels. Strangely, Sherlock had known almost instantly this was another case, without Moriarty at its center, like the last had been. Thus, it was deemed boring even before he had figured out, thirty seconds later, that the killer was the victim's partner in business entanglements - Motivation via profit. Usual, predictable, dull, dull, dull..  


* * *

  
  
Together he and John prowl around the flat, with John growing more irritated over Sherlock's erratic behavior: pacing one moment, grating their ears with his violin's pained squeals as he applied too much pressure, threatening to shoot the walls, and then actually shooting them. Sherlock is bored...  
  
Unable to fill his mental void with deductions, Sherlock finds himself wondering when Moriarty will next strike. Not to goad him by getting to John again, of course, but something to provide him with a thrilling case. Moriarty's criminal escapades are beyond occupying, sometimes they could be all-consuming. Going from Lestrade's minimal cases to Moriarty's convoluted criminal complexities was like only being allowed tiny breaths for years, then suddenly taking gulping lung-fulls of air.

Sherlock wants more brilliant cases. He recognizes addiction, and knew mental addiction was his sole unshakable dependency. Moriarty might prove to be more problematic then he priorly anticipated.  
  


The detective grabs John's laptop – typing swiftly to put the word out that he wants a new case. Before he can press send John has come to his side and is wresting the bulky electronic from his hands. “Sherlock you can't just take my things.”  
  
“I need a case, John.” In Sherlock's mind this more than justifies what seems to be a pet peeve of his flatmate's.  
  
“If you want to waste time, you can go into your bedroom for your laptop.” John accents the word your, repeating it too, as if he needs to make such obvious gestures to get Sherlock's attention.  
  
“I do not want to _waste_ time.” Nearly snide with his petulant return volley, he cannot help but feel insulted at the lack of understanding by John when he is clearly bored. “I want to think.” Sherlock hisses under his breath in such a sharp way that John looks down at the page Sherlock had been on and hits send for his message.  
  
The message goes out, and the flat fills up with potential clients wanting to be interviewed; a pair of little girls concerned about where their grandpa had gone, a man whose ashes were not human ashes, some geeky comic book teenagers.  
  
For a little while business goes on as usual...

* * *

 

  
Until the appearance of Irene Adler, better known as the Woman.  
  
Irene makes the distance grow between John and Sherlock. Her presences takes up months of both their lives, and swallows Sherlock's attention whole. Her alluring hold over Sherlock began early. Everything about their initial meeting screamed sex, as did every one thereafter. She had made Sherlock think, which was an easy task because everything made him think, except Irene could guide his thoughts, which was certainly not so simple a matter. She played her part to the letter as far as being Moriarty's puppet was concerned.  
  
When Sherlock's phone buzzed a week after he had saved Ms. Adler from the terrorist cell he was confused, because no wanton moan greeted his ears. Instead there was a realistic crackle. Sherlock recognized wood-burning, likely an audio recording from a fireplace. It accompanied a text sent by Moriarty, not Irene. The number was unlisted and blocked, of course, but the text signature was unmistakable.

Apparently Ms. Adler had not altered only her own ringtone back when she stole Sherlock's coat. Though, Moriarty had not texted in months, so Sherlock had not known. In fact he had nearly forgotten the crime lord. Occasionally his thoughts would float to Moriarty, especially when cases loosely linked to him, but they had not played the game for months. So why choose now to get in touch? Sherlock's fingers slid deftly over the touchscreen, pulling up the message;  
 **Let's have another chat,  
I've missed you Sherlock.**

 **J.M**  
  
Sherlock was ready to ignore this little summons when another message resounded the crackling flame. His eyes narrowed slightly before reading the next text;  
 **I will kill your landlady if you don't. ;D**  
 **The park. Come alone.**  
 **J.M**  
  
After eying the screen carefully he goes down to see his not-landlady. She is not in. Without waiting for John to get out of the shower he wraps himself up in his coat and scarf, leaving the flat.  


* * *

  
  
With twilight just about to fall the London air retains a coolness without being chilling. Just enough to send his gloved hands inside his coat pockets.  
  
Moriarty was waiting for his dark-haired knight in rusted armor on a park bench. The quaint fairytale imagery made him hungry for the taller man, but the smile was hidden from his face for this meeting. As soon as the looming figure appears his eyebrows perk up. “Sherlock.” His Irish accent trills over the vowels within the detective's name.  
  
“You said the flirting was over,” Sherlock reminds him. As drawn to Moriarty's intellect as he is, there is still clear danger and uncertainty in their meetings. He sat down stiffly beside the villain. The only consolation was knowing Moriarty could have killed him earlier if he had wanted – factually that made this merely a tête–à–tête.  
  
“I lied.” Moriarty smirks at him, but there is a heretofore unseen warmth in his eyes. “Besides, when I said that we were in front of your pet.”  
  
“Don't.” The snap is less sharp than he would like it to be, and he feels a tension in his jaw – anger, Sherlock registers. Partly triggered by not believing the emotion he saw in his enemy's gaze. And underlying concern for Mrs. Hudson. Irritatingly, emotion is the conclusion.  
  
“That's all he is..” Moriarty's voice takes on that higher pitched teasing tone. The sharp psychotic trill was audible now, “He's nothing like me! You and I, gorgeous.” He exhales sharply, a near erotic sound that Sherlock is surprised he recognizes as erotic given who it is coming from.  
  
“Is that why you've been digging up cases for me?” Sherlock inquires. He is treading carefully, both for his own self-control, and to avoid setting off the volatile Irishman until he has some answers, or enough data to extrapolate into answers. “It is a lot of effort,” His unusually light eyes slide carefully across the stubble on Moriarty's face. “And it must not help your reputation as a consulting criminal to give up information to someone helping Scotland Yard.”  
  
“I'm glad you noticed.” Moriarty's voice is still playful but he speaks with pride. He does not care about the other commentary, just that Sherlock is picking up on the efforts he has made lately. It perks him up, Sherlock notes, as the shorter man physically holds himself a little straighter. _Preening peacock,_ Sherlock thinks.  
  
“You could have gone to less self-destructive lengths to hold my attention.” Observes the analytic mind now ablaze. His tone remains measured as the detective works on verbally infiltrating Moriarty's obscure shell. “I'm sure any number of options are available to you.”  
  
“Oh, they are.” The offhanded response pricks up his alert, and the gleam in Moriarty's dark gaze is even less comforting. The madman is pleased with himself. “But they wouldn't have made the.. right point.”  
  
Sherlock believed he could fathom the depths of Moriarty's criminal syndicate, and so he could understand how a few spoiled crimes would be inconsequential compared to the vastness of his successful underground ventures. Still, it is not necessary. He knows he is missing something.  
  
“Sending in a naked swindler was an unmissable point.” Perhaps a bit of ego-stroking would incite Moriarty to talk, for the more people talked the more they gave away.  
  
“Not for you,” This amuses him, as Moriarty is delighted that Sherlock has still not gotten it.  
  
“The woman was difficult to deduce.” You just needed to say the proper things first, to get them to say what you wanted - Sherlock knows this little game, and he knows Moriarty enjoys basking in his intellect as much as Sherlock does his own.  
  
Sherlock has deduced it right, proven as Moriarty fires back, “Then again, you're not used to women.” The playful glee in Moriarty's voice is tantamount to his teasing diffusive voice. When Irene Adler came on the scene she was told Sherlock was a treat. In reality, like everyone else, Sherlock was meant to be a job for her. Moriarty pulled her strings like everyone else's, but again, Sherlock missed the point of her.  
  
“This is all part of a bigger game, Sherlock.. You're blundering through it.” Moriarty aggrandizes his mockery as it was blatantly clear the consulting detective had missed what he was truly after.  
  
“What part does Mrs. Hudson play in your game?” Sherlock inquires with less care than he really feels, just like the faux-burglar who ended up thrown out his window more times then he could count.  
  
“Oh, none. She went to a friend's flat for tea.” Moriarty begins to laugh softly. The look of relief and irritation only lasts for a split second before the detective blocks the emotion, but his archenemy spots it. It is all too easy for Moriarty to drop a few words and send Sherlock running – and now the detective knows it, too. A red dot appears on Sherlock's chest, and he remains on the bench until it disappears – when Moriarty is well out of sight. His laughter haunts Sherlock even after he has swept away.  
  
When Lestrade arrives with his squadron Moriarty is nowhere in the area, as they all expected.


	3. The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> Shout-out to Kim - who not only puts up with my Jimlock chatter & 24/7 randomness, but betas for me! Nothing but adoration for you, my dear friend!

  
CHAPTER THREE - The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor  
  
  
Since the conclusion of the case with the Woman they have reached an uneasy equilibrium within the flat. John knew nothing had happened between Sherlock and Irene Adler, but she still set Sherlock off in some obscure way that John could not place. Irene had bathed Sherlock's mind in sex – from appearing naked, to the ringtone she left, to their whip play in her apartment.

Unbeknownst to John, she had reminded Sherlock that transport is in the eye of the beholder. That much of Moriarty's plan had gone off without a hitch – why else would he send in a dominatrix?  
  
Moriarty had not intended for Irene to needle away at John though. That was an added bonus of her own making. Her words had lingered, haunting John.  
  
 _Are you jealous?_  
  
 _We're not a couple._  
  
 _Yes, you are._  
  
John's good leg was jittering against his knee for several minutes before Sherlock walks in. Waiting amidst the convoluted wallpaper at 221b in quiet, without the ringing of Sherlock's violin, has felt off, so when the slouching detective appears relief washes over him. At least it starts to, but then he sees the look on Sherlock's face as he came in from his 'walk.'  
  
“Are you alright, Sherlock?” John asks hesitantly.  
  
Sherlock looks at John, who is not brilliant like Moriarty, but John is loyal, kind, has nerves of steel, and John never gives up on him. Everybody else does, some quicker than others, but not John. The doctor has always been his only friend, but now Sherlock looks at him questioningly. His half lidded curiosity unnerves the light haired militant man.  
  
“I need to think.” Is all Sherlock says in return. The enigmatic Holmes turns his back on his friend and mentally weighs everything he knows. The categorical thought process continues as John goes out to the corner shop, without the detective noticing.  
  
Why did he go to Moriarty first and call Lestrade after? It was not that peculiar, he had expected to get answers more easily that way. Although that would logically justify it, Sherlock knows it was something more. Something just below the surface of his subconscious – the one irritating place he can not easily see.  
  
Sherlock is still launching an attack on his superego when his phone buzzes with a loud sizzle that sounds a touch provocative, although nothing like Irene's glaringly wanton ringtone. Moriarty.  
 **Are you bored?**

 **J.M**  
  
After several moment's consideration Sherlock texts back;  
 **Excessively.  
**  
 **SH**  
  
As soon as it is sent his hand lowers, phone held loose enough to be in danger of falling. Sherlock runs a hand through his black mop, wondering what on earth he is doing – for the first time feeling uncertainty full blown. Not doubt over a fact, entirely uncertain. He can nearly hear Moriarty in his mind, laughing, in some windowless room far away.

There must be something in his posture that calls for concern, because when John walks back into the room (when, he finds himself wondering, did John leave?) he asks Sherlock if he is alright. The shorter man walks over and sits down next to him on the couch, looking at him with dark eyes. It all seems perfunctory to Sherlock's now hollowed eyes, but he turns to look at John and feels confusion despite the fact that nothing is mentally registering as jumbled, mistaken, or bewildering. He is befuddled but does not know why – emotion without a thought, rare for Sherlock.  
  
Their eyes lock and Sherlock's mind is grinding along now, full of parlous thoughts. He wonders why John is leaning closer, and begins extrapolating details from his flatmate's shirt; Likely a date tonight, though he has heard nothing about one (not that he really listens mind you). It is not until they touch that Sherlock realizes what is intended by the lean-in. John's lips lightly pressing to his own, a cautious testing of the waters. John is predictable to live with, but that was indeed a capricious move.  
  
Sherlock is vaguely aware of soft stillness before the doctor pulls away. He hears John's stuttered apology, but ignores it. Oddly enough, the kiss felt right. Sherlock thinks that this has a high likelihood of helping him make his deductions. _Intriguing_. More data would be required, and since John initiated it, it was obviously acceptable.  
  
He trusts John above all others, in everything.  
  
Best of all, this is not boring.

* * *

  
  
Shallow, quicker heartbeat. Racing pulse. Slight sweat upon his brow.  
  
Sherlock Holmes is aware he is aroused - with the signs so visceral he would have to be an imbecile not to notice. The cause of his arousal is angled toward him, with lips softly pressing against Sherlock's – and even without knowing the depths of sensuality Sherlock recognizes John is holding back. Reciprocation has caught John off guard, but he is unwilling to spoil it.  
  
Enjoying both the feeling, and the muting effect this sudden physicality is having on his havoc-driven mind, Sherlock makes it a point to kiss John harder. The doctor's lips part slightly – likely in surprise, notes the still fully functional detective – and Sherlock seizes that opportunity to take John's lower lip between both of his and suckle it into his mouth.  
  
The quiver of his flatmate's upper lip tells him he has done it properly. John leans into Sherlock, jumper pressing against the silk shirt Sherlock wears. Sherlock does not know what to do with his hands so he sets them on John's waist. John's hands are still scrunched up within his lap. Sherlock's fingers make it a point to explore along the loose expanse hidden under John's jumper, fingers curving underneath the woolly fabric. John is smooth and soft, a cushy touch he finds himself enjoying.  
  
Everything is as it is supposed to be as they kiss for several minutes. The kiss feels alright at first, but now that seems to fade, as if their touch has gone sour. They're slowing down, and Sherlock has no urge to lean back in once they stop. As they pull back from each other John sees a calculating look in Sherlock's eyes, but no passion.

John flushes pink. He is out of breath and his cadence is slower, “Was that – an experiment?”  
  
“As you began it, that would be difficult.” Sherlock replies in a huskier voice than he knew he was capable of. It only triggers John's flush to brighten.  
  
“Right. Sorry.. Look, I, um,” John struggles to explain his sudden fancying. His frown lines are etched deep enough to look permanent.  
  
“It's nothing, John.” Sherlock says dismissively. As he stands up from the couch he quietly adds, “I am sorry.” Those three little words perplex John Watson and make him feel as if his heart has been cut out. He gives his flatmate a nod and watches Sherlock head out of the living room, leaving John suddenly exhaling harshly as he tries to get a hold of himself.

* * *

 

They both go to bed early that night, leaving the awkwardness to fester. The next day they avoid each other. Each man stays in his bedroom, leaving their neutral ground open should one or the other require something from the living room or kitchen. There is an unspoken agreement to remain remote.  
  
Then Sherlock's phone chirped its fiery tune, alerting him to Moriarty's latest text.  
 **Sorry I kept you waiting. Something came up.**  
 **Would you like to go to a wedding, Sherlock?**  
 **Bring back my toy.**  
 **J.M**  
  
The phone buzzes again while Sherlock is contemplating sending a reply. This time it rings without any creative noise, and Lestrade's name pops up. One minute and sixteen seconds between texts, Sherlock notes. Moriarty is thorough. The Detective Inspector requires them immediately for a case and has sent them an address. After a moment's fiddling he sweeps upstairs to alert John.

* * *

  
  
Unsurprisingly, an hour later Sherlock and John find themselves in a ceremonial hall within a hotel. Some of London's supposed-finest guard the doors, keeping the well-attired guests inside. Meanwhile Sherlock prowls around near the groom's body, prodding the wound oozing out his lifeblood.  
  
A few family members are being interviewed, and their voices dribble into Sherlock's ears like background music. “No, I didn't hear nothin'.”, “Oh God, what's Kimberly going to do _now_?”, “Yeah I heard a pop sound. Then I ran in, and he- he was..”, “Everybody liked Philip, why would anybody _murder_ him?”, “It was such a quiet, happy day!”.  
  
A kill shot, but the flesh is not mangled enough to be from an automatic weapon despite Anderson muttering it is a clear-cut case. There are no burning lacerations around the victim's skin, just the harsh puncture from a metal projectile. A clean puncture.  
  
Sherlock touches the skin and lifts his latex-covered finger, sniffing where there is no acrid scent when there ought have been. He leans forward and outright sniffs the body directly for confirmation – _no gunpowder, no chemical scent, no residue from an artificial propellant_. He ignored the stares of onlookers, only noting the mingling copper scent that lingers in his nostrils. Behind him John begins describing the wound to him in medical jargon, confirming what Sherlock already knew. John Watson is nothing short of professional, as if nothing had happened between them. He had not said anything when Sherlock had informed him they had a case. Maybe it was nothing.  
  
“Someone just stashed the weapon.” Anderson is whining behind him, trying to get Lestrade to give the guests another once over. The police have already done physical searches without finding anything – that is why Sherlock was called in.  
  
“Shut up and let me think!” Sherlock snaps at him, delivering a withering glare while tugging off the latex glove. He turns away from the others as if he finds the sight of Anderson effrontery, and he does.

The crowd of family and friends that had gathered for the now dead man's special occasion were before him from this position - staring wide-eyed at the pale stranger who was sniffing a corpse one minute and snapping at coppers the next. His bright stare fell on them, deducing at light speed while throwing out irrelevant information. Sherlock points out a couple of them, and they are taken off to the side for questioning. He prowls back and forth between them – the old woman with the walker is rejected, as is the young couple, and the middle aged man. Only an elderly gentleman in a clean suit rests before them, with Lestrade giving Sherlock a dubious look as he hardly seems likely.  
  
The man shrugs his shoulders with a wince, looking at Sherlock with long eyes.

“It's in his cane.” Sherlock's low voice penetrated the quiet.  
  
The old man weakly lifts his cane, giving it a light shake. “Can't kill nobody with a cane, boyo. Not with my arms.” He looks a little frightened, insistent yet afraid. John sees his grandfather in this man and for a moment wants to assure him but Sherlock's presence has a way of steeling his nerves.  
  
Sherlock is not deterred and drives ahead, “Your gait indicates a great deal of daily walking. Your back and hip muscles have no sign of atrophy or injury. There is no reason you require a cane.” The little old man's mouth has dropped open but Sherlock raises his voice to go beyond his barely audible noises of protest. “When you hold it you clench the handle with too much force, you are adjusting to make it look realistic, because you are not used to walking with one.”  
  
“W-what? You couldn't think I'd do a thing like – like that? I-I love little Kimberly..” The old man murmurs with a gentle rejection, but even John can see the sadness bleeding through his eyes.  
  
“Yes. I can tell that, in your suit. It is eight or nine years old, because you do not see the point in buying new clothes at your time of life, but it is in immaculate condition. Your watch is a cheap imitation, but your suit is expensive – likely your best suit, the dickey in it brand new, and the rose in your buttonhole is the most telling of all. Blue roses are very expensive indeed, but I suspect your granddaughter prefers them.” The man's lower lip wobbles at that, proving Sherlock right as he concludes. “You've been waiting for this day.”  
  
“I suspect you found the groom tangled in the arms of another woman and extracted your own revenge.” At this the man buries his face in his hands and sobs.

“That's so absurd..” Anderson starts in, before Sherlock cuts him off.  
  
“Yes, it does seem absurd that you failed to see something so obvious.” Sherlock sounds positively snarky. “You missed the trace of lipstick residue on his cheek – the actual color he whipped off after his indiscretion, some cheaper brands leave a white film. Likely pointing to one of the caterer's waitresses.”  
  
Sherlock looks back at the man who is more composed, but still sniffling. “You saw them together and grew angry.” He nods meekly and the detective continues with a soft murmur. “You already had the perfect weapon on you, before you decided to commit the crime..”  
  
Lestrade gives him a look of passive confusion, only half-hearing him, but Sherlock's voice regains his confidence and sultry commanding volume, and barrels ahead. “Your shoulder - the pain comes from the recoil when you fired.” His ethereal eyes snap down to the man's quivering palms. “Your hands are shaking not from the emotion, but the energy required to operate the weapon - which is an air rifle, spring piston.” He punctuates this statement for Anderson's benefit. “Not used to holding such a weapon, you failed to use an artillery hold. You held too tightly, not allowing the gun to vibrate as is needed.”  
  
As everyone else looks on incredulously, Sherlock gives them a stare that John and Lestrade both know means he is wondering how they are all able to stand being so unbearably dull-minded. “Nobody heard the sound except for a loud 'pop', there are no traces of powder or chemical solvent residue, and he physically exhibits signs of firing an unfamiliar weapon.” After a moment his voice mounts with irritation and he partly concedes, “It would have to be a particularly ingenious model to not have the hinged barrel required for cocking, but nonetheless, an air pistol within his cane!”

“I found it!” Blurts out the sorrowful gentleman, remorseful and guilty all at once. “This man in the park, he left it and - I didn't even really think until I used it! She deserved better than that! She didn't deserve a boy that played around! Kimberly is an angel!” Now the old man is imploring and Lestrade has one of the Yard take him in for questioning with the knowledge that he is going to get a full confession. Lestrade picks up the cane and studies it, pointing it away from the crowd.  
  
Sherlock barely pays eyes the distraught man as he is led off, too busy appraising the supposed weapon, studying the cane's straight shape with his eyes. _Cocking lever, likely motorized, the battery somewhere within the handle. Spring loaded piston._ His eyes graze what looks like a small fringe in the side, barely visible in the artificial overhead lights. _Air compression chamber with an opening on the side._ There is a small pleasure in his next audible words, “Expensive. Custom made.”

Sherlock's eyes are harsh as they fall on Lestrade. “I'd like to investigate this.”  
  
It takes a little time between the bickering about 'evidence' and 'procedure,' but with Sherlock's personal indifference and uncharming talents he leaves the scene with the cane after Lestrade has opened the bottom and side enough to validate Sherlock's claim, taken photographs, tagged the cane, and placed it in a large clear plastic evidence bag with express instructions not to open it.  
  
Sherlock plans to open it as soon as possible.

“He looked like an innocent old man, almost like my grandfather. Sherlock, how did you think it could be him?” John inquired, while wondering how he could still find what Sherlock did so incredible. No one was ever safe from his sharper than hawk eyes.  
  
“Ageism is ugly on you, John.” The suddenness of his bitter remark catches John off guard and he looks over at Sherlock as the detective holds up his hand to hail them a cab. “Anyone is capable of anything. Stereotypes are barriers to corral your mind into one laned thinking.”  
  
The explanation softens John a little, still jumpy from their earlier encounter. It feels unresolved, like an awkward haze lingering around them. “Sometimes I forget who I'm dealing with.” John remarks, the words would be scathing on anyone else, but they're that shrugging Watsonish tone, a benevolence given towards Sherlock's perplexities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The air-rifle concealed in a cane is the choice weapon of Colonel Sebastian Moran in the original Doyle Holmes stories - Moriarty's sniper!  
> This kicks off our trip - now we're in Doyle title territory, folks..


	4. A Case Of Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

**CHAPTER FOUR -** **A Case Of Identity** , otherwise known as **The Summons of Sebastian's Cane**

  
  
When one is the center of a criminal web, one hears about ethereal beings like Sherlock Holmes if they thwart important enough plans time and time again. How very fairytale Sherlock seemed when Moriarty first heard of the consulting detective - Some brave knight riding in and stopping a villain right at the last moment.  
  
That is how he likes it, overblown theatrics. Drama brings with it such eloquence - Moriarty feeds off of that. It is his own high, the kind that makes every volatile explosion worthwhile. One would think a crime lord would be angered having his work undone, but he is always pleased by what he privately calls their scrappy battles. Little more than skirmishes really.  
  
James Moriarty, better known as Jim (mostly by himself, few really know him), had first been called Sherlock's fan, which is putting it mildly. In reality he is inflamed beyond belief at the prospect of such an opponent. There is something about the detective's beautiful mind that draws him in, not just his intellect although that is the primary motivation, but that Sherlock is a solitary figure amidst a generic lineup. Sherlock Holmes is like Jim Moriarty – neither sees the world as the other 99.9% do.

It is beyond that, Jim knows. The criminal mastermind had meant what he said when he told Sherlock they could be glorious together. If their connection was merely kindred spirits igniting and flickering to each other in Morse code across a barren sea, he would know. This is a depth beyond that, that makes him feel they are made for each other – Jim is there to enrapture Sherlock's mind, and Sherlock is there to challenge him.  
  
He waits patiently.

* * *

  
  
“Sherlock?” John thrusts the name out, his voice is not at all tentative. John knows how to treat Sherlock when he is in one of his moods, and this is not one that requires careful handling.

The nightshade strands curling around the detective's face bounce with the force put into looking in John's direction. They square off with a stare and John is certain Sherlock's eyes have gone beady.  
  
The cane lies on the laboratory table at St. Bart's, half taken apart. The bottom, top, and side chambers are open for the detective's tinkering. Presently, said lanky man is leaning over a microscope, examining the composition of grime found on the bottom of the cane. Sherlock is hoping to use the microscopic map to see where it has traveled in order to find where it had come from.  
  
“High saline deposits, drainage.” Sherlock has already established it was London clay by a visual inspection, but after the microscope he has pinpointed it further - certain it is from somewhere near the Thames. From the chemicals found in the cane's grime he deduces it is from a factory district.  
  
“Traces of dust found in most common commercial mortar,” He states the subsequent finding to no one in particular, which then leads him to an area with building in progress. The fertilizer he next finds traces of leads him out to the mouth of the Thames. After cross referencing these characteristics with recently rented or purchased land near the Thames waterfront Sherlock finds only two possibilities; One is ruled out, unlikely for Moriarty to show himself in such a place, and the other is noted by Sherlock before he goes back to work disassembling the cane.

Now he has to decide what to do about it. It is easy to continue working, even though he could leave. The cane itself is an intricate, fine crafted piece – both the cane's outward design and its deadly internal delicacies. While he explores it, Sherlock thinks..  
  
Right away he knew - back then in Angelo's he knew - that John was not going to be enough. No matter how loyal and at times even adorable John could be, he always has that palpable hint of ordinary. The shorter man is a genuinely good person, something Sherlock is not. John is good right down to the core – honorable, brave in the face of danger, and noble. Indeed rare qualities, not ordinary at all with the muck humanity truly is. Sherlock saw amidst all the murder and depravity the reality of the human species, so calling John ordinary was, in many ways false in fact. But in the ways that make Sherlock's blood pump faster – his mind especially – John is commonplace with a touch of quirky.  


John is speaking to him now, trying to question him about something within the cane. Part of the internal mechanism, but Sherlock has already recognized its workings and moved on from that aspect of the weapon. He casually tunes out the doctor's words until John is repeating his name loudly. Only then does Sherlock rise from the table and begin to deftly reassemble the air riffle hidden within the ornate walking stick.  
  
“John, I'll meet you back at the flat.” His announcement is crisp, no gingerness within his tone as business returns as usual.  
  
“Sherlock? Where are you going?” John makes a move to grab his coat but Sherlock holds up a hand that catches his attention.  
  
“I want some time alone to think.” Replies the consulting detective, brushing by Molly as she walks back in with three coffees.

John ignores the young mortician's perplexed look, giving the now empty evidence bag a mildly annoyed stare.

* * *

  
Sherlock feels it so often; ceaseless boredom. That pontificating cabbie had been right, Sherlock would have done anything to stop the boredom. Thus why the name Moriarty made him so pleased, even before he had put a face to him.. Even when it meant death for others. That is why he is going to Moriarty for a conversation that will quench his monotony. His feet (and a mildly efficient London cab driver) lead him to the location indicated by his research on the cane.  
  
Sherlock's army browning L9A1 is in his pocket, the handle a flimsy yet comforting pressure. Both hands at his sides, relaxed as he walks into the three story tall warehouse. The scent of almonds runs rampant on the inside. Likely the prior purpose of the warehouse was for moving goods, if one were to judge by the great crates still lining the walls.

“If you're not quicker next time I'll text the address.” Comes a toying voice from behind. Even with the bouncing acoustics he can discern Moriarty is above him. Sherlock turns and looks around and his deduction is proved true when the villain appears perched up on internal scaffolding to create a walkway along the perimeter. Yet another moment Moriarty has a clear shot at him but does not take it, notes the detective – all a part of their cat and mouse game. The brute uses brute strength – they are men of intellect. This is always a game, and Sherlock is reminded of that by Moriarty's cool stance.  
  
“What would be the point in that?” Sherlock regards the elevated shorter man carefully, adopting an indifference. Moriarty looks absolutely delighted. The sight is almost unnerving, except that he is aware of a tingling sensation derived as a reaction to pleasure. His body betrays him in physiological signs he can not himself ignore - Sherlock likes seeing this new side of his archenemy.  
  
“You're too clever to have forgotten this.” Sherlock murmurs with a soft hum of minor interest, the cane is still in his hand – they are clever enough that he does not need to make such a pointed move as to twirl it.

He can picture the scene, Moriarty in a park, sitting on a bench beside the old man, getting up, leaving behind his 'special' cane. Moriarty in the background, one of his lackeys paying the coat check girl (catering waitress had been too hasty a deduction), and all for what? Sherlock's eyes narrow and he decides to pose a question with more pressure – for them the subject must be intellect. “What else are you too clever for?” The inquiry comes with an arching eyebrow.  
  
“Promises, promises..” Moriarty's retort comes gently, it is exaggerated with his short bark of a fake laugh.  
  
“I did wonder why you'd leave this behind..” Sherlock muses, lifting up the cane by its middle instead of the handle. He can feel Moriarty watching him sweep his eyes over the walking stick. “Air guns fire projectiles with compressed air – requiring no loading, giving off very little sound, and their velocity approaches or bypasses that of the speed of sound.” He rotates the concealed weapon with a bored air that belies the true vigor he feels. “Big game hunters once used them excessively - Perfectly capable way of killing something and walking away without anyone noticing.”  
  
Moriarty says nothing, but as Sherlock looks up again he notes the corners of his lips twitch, pleasantly.  
  
“Is that what you are, Moriarty - a big game hunter?” Sherlock is not walking on verbal eggshells, he is in battle-mode. The taller man feels a bit more certain why Moriarty resolves to create mazes for him, and especially why he is needling Sherlock privately, without a case between them. The cane is not a case, it is nothing but an offered summons.

“By that logic that makes you my game, Sherlock.” Moriarty calls down in a playful, slightly higher pitch. Voice daring Sherlock to bat at the paw playing with him as it becomes his turn to fill the role of mouse.  
  
“Have you caught me?” He asks wryly, looking up at the figure on a mesh of black plastic wrapped steel. Moriarty's body slips within the shadows given his dark suit, but he remains in Sherlock's field of vision at all times.  
  
“Not yet, but I will.” Moriarty's self assured faint Dublin accent does not miss a beat.

“I suppose it is a moot point to ask how.” Sherlock's voice lowers slightly but with the stretching emptiness around them acoustically it does not matter.

“Not at all.” Moriarty's smile is visible, dripping with confidence, and it is alluring. “You'll let me.” His voice drops two octaves, a sultry whisper, “You know what I want, Sherlock Holmes.” It drives a shiver through the detective that he feels but does not show. “Think.”  
  
With that Moriarty is moving, taking his time to stroll down the end of the black metal walkway, descending the grated stairs to reach the ground. Sherlock took the time to think as suggested.  
  
Sherlock had earlier realized the pull of emotion with Irene's phone – SHERlocked. What was that phrasing Molly had said about people doing things that were nonsensical? _No matter,_ Sherlock thought, _the meaning is there and that is more than adequate._ An unintended consequence, or perhaps he had meant it all along, is that Sherlock feels he better understands Moriarty. Irene is a lens applied over his grand scheme. It has taken a little while to click into place, but it has finally processed through. He already knew Moriarty is playing a game of emotion with him. Yet, as Moriarty had said, this was part of a bigger game. The game was for Sherlock, not at Sherlock, and now he knows that.  
  
Moriarty is halfway down now and he is only cracking the surface. _What else_ , queries his unstoppable freight train of a brain, seeking out data to break down.. He has to dig deeper, emotion is, in and of itself, not telltale enough, broad, vauge.  
  
Jim from IT; His alter ego to toy with them. Meticulous attention to cleanliness that Sherlock misattributed as a sign of homosexuality. Or, had he incorrectly deduced? That was the point – a cover to meet him - was it not? Double bluff. Sherlock's eyes flickered with thought.

The genius was that Sherlock would immediately push information gleaned from Jim from IT aside, as parts of a character, done by some sinister master actor called Moriarty. Sherlock would not initially guess Jim was possibly, genuinely... Jim. Now he could see it.  
  
Every chance they have gotten together Moriarty has been a horrid flirt. _Take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Fuck off... Playing gay.. Then again, you're not used to women.._ He has always called his enemy Moriarty, his last name, yet he has been called Sherlock in return, always Sherlock. The mastermind was willing to let millions of pounds go just to capture his attention and lure Sherlock into such a complex meeting, to impress him. Putting all those lives at risk, to capture his attention. Starting with Carl Powers, and leading to this years later, an intricate obsession... obsession. Sherlock's mind riveted on that word for a moment.  
  
Irene's voice fluttered into his head from memory, _Jim Moriarty sends his love._  
  
“Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true." He murmurs to himself as a gentle reminder. Sherlock takes a deeper breath.  
  
“Brilliant.” Sherlock breaths out the word as his labored epiphany reaches its crescendo. It does not matter that Moriarty is trying to display affection in rampages, but that his metaphysical love letter was so ingenious a puzzle to craft and work through; Months upon months of cases without him realizing. Moriarty is brilliant, a mind unlike any other he has ever known. Even within the madness he is ingenious – this entire mess is one great psychotic's imagination.

Sherlock's eyes wander over the high forehead and sharp near-onyx eyes of Moriarty. In his own way he is an acceptable figure, pleasant to look at though he tries to appear as the sort of indistinguishable man able to slip in among a crowd. When Sherlock's eyes lingered he finally took notice of the shorter man's fine smooth lines and meticulously cared for visage.  
  
“The best way to hide the truth is in plain sight. And nothing looks as unbelievable as a lie.” Sherlock says quietly, watching Moriarty stare him down. He now understands the audacity within the plan – truth will look the least appealing if you dress it as a lie. Moriarty could offer himself to the detective, his guise Jim from IT would be proved a farce, and Sherlock would never think twice on it. Ingenious – reality playing itself as a cover.  
  
“But I still won't 'let' you, anything.” Sherlock tosses the cane to Moriarty's feet. It clatters loudly to the ground and he turns on his heel. He begins to walk away with a slight wave of his hands, “Consider this round mine, as I've found you out.”  
  
“Be fair. I did give you an awful lot of hints, Sherlock.” Moriarty's voice goes a touch higher than its usual. “And, I want you to prove you know it - Have you paid attention?”  
  
Sherlock pauses and glances back at him, “I am aware you're making an homage of adulation to me.” Moriarty passes his weight to the balls of his feet, rocking a little. Sherlock walks away, the metal echoing after he closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments make the world go round! ^_^


	5. The Man With The Twisted Lip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

CHAPTER FIVE - The Man With The Twisted Lip  
  
  
When Sherlock Holmes left his arch nemesis he had felt more uncertain then when he entered. It is very nearly a demoralizing feeling, to know mass-murdering Moriarty is entertaining romantic thoughts - of you. His mind had become unseated, clouded with white noise as he absorbed that fact.  
  
Sherlock had previously thought of Moriarty as being comparable to a peacock – looking back he could see how right he truly was.. Moriarty is a creature that spreads out many elongated feathers to lure others in, by making himself look larger and more vibrant. Peacocks – creatures who seek the most exaggeratedly marked being for mating, the ones that parade around showing off their best. Sherlock Holmes is finding it a discomforting parallel indeed.  
  
When he arrives back at Baker Street, John is waiting. Sherlock knows before he has climbed the stairs that John had arrived a half hour earlier, and that he has already made tea. When Sherlock enters he spots a cup waiting for him, no steam - so it had cooled, but John has left it – likely hoping (and correctly so) that Sherlock would soon return.

“John?” Sherlock says, returning without the cane although John has not noticed that. He has something on his mind, something to say to his flatmate – clear from his posture, the angle of his shoulders, and the crease in his brow – but so does Sherlock, and he beats the doctor to it by opening his mouth first. “What would I do, not to be bored?”

“What?” John asks perplexedly, half thrown by his own thoughts and half by what he believes he has heard. Sherlock repeats it, enunciating as if for an ignoramus, which John has never liked. He shakes his head slightly without taking his eyes off Sherlock. Now John Watson is curious, so he looks away for a moment and digs deeper for a response. John thinks of the madness driving his flatmate, the agitation he gets without a case, “Short of murder, anything I guess.”  
  
“Bit not good.” Sherlock murmurs frustratingly, stomping off to the window to take in the street view. Moriarty is nothing if not interesting – this concerns the world's only consulting detective whose mind must be sharp, but not when it comes at such a cost. Interesting is as coercive an addiction as cocaine. Moriarty is much more dangerous though.  
  
The harmonic reverberation of violin strings lull John to sleep as Sherlock takes another night without rest.

* * *

 

The next morning is begins as a silent battle of politeness. John goes out of his way to apologize without actually naming the lip-locking incident he is apologizing for, he makes Sherlock tea, and he gets the man his hidden cigarettes without a fight. John Watson does not even complain when Sherlock moves to light one indoors and that is when the detective lowers the match as his test proves that yes, John is upset. “John, I think we should discuss this properly, to put it behind us.” Sherlock announces in a matter-of-fact manner.  
  
“Discuss what?” John's attempt at playing innocent is met by a droll stare of those unabashedly powder blue eyes. Sherlock is well aware that John cannot sweep it under the rug, as he is trying to do, because it dominates his thoughts too well.

Sherlock already sees a way out of this. “John, I require your friendship and your assistance on cases. I cannot compromise our relationship in this manner.” There is a clinical distance to his voice, the kind he uses on other people but not John until now. “It was inappropriate of me.”

“So you regret the.. kiss?” John sounds confused.  
  
“I regret the awkward position I put you in.” Clarifies Sherlock pointedly, carefully articulating his words. “It was unnecessary but interesting.”  
  
John arches a brow – uncertain whether to feel flattered or confused. Both emotions mingle together, congealing unpleasantly in his stomach. There is silence for a moment, before the sound of Sherlock's weight falling onto the couch – the man never sits or lies down like a regular human being, he always flops down upon it.  
  
“Sherlock, are you alright?”  
  
“Sorted, thank you.” Sherlock replies in a genuine enough voice, but John still holds a touch of concern.  
  
“Sherlock, I'm not sure what's going on in your head – I never am so why should that surprise me,” His latter point more muttered to himself, but his voice regains its volume, “– but I appreciate that you trust me, that much.”  
  
John gives a stumbling awkward smile to his friend which Sherlock nods to, and they part – Sherlock to his laptop in order to check their websites, and John to seek out a quiet corner to process what _that_ was all about.  
  
Before they had solved their first case together Sherlock discovered John is a sounding board – his best use is as a companion in his work, to ground Sherlock from teetering out of control, and to let him bounce thoughts off in those manic moments of contemplation. John Watson is a mirror at best, able to distort what Sherlock said into a new thought but never an original one. That was what he wants deep down; something novel. Something interesting. God, what he would do for someone brilliant.  
  
That's what Moriarty is, after all. Brilliant. A malevolent loony, but no less brilliant for being one.  
  
Sherlock sits up slowly, shifts himself off the couch, and wraps his thin, fit frame within his dressing gown. He pads down to get dressed in his room, his mind sparking.

After careful consideration Sherlock Holmes sends Moriarty a text;

**If I have conditions?**   
  
**SH**

  
Sherlock is returned with an address and time for that evening. He gleans from that that Moriarty is impatient, unwilling to waste time on Sherlock deducing a clue. Instead he hurries their discussion of what these conditions are.

* * *

  
  
Their meeting place is simple and desolate enough. Sherlock has to take a cab to get to it, being so far out from Baker Street. By day a lively car park - Barren at this time of night. Just overhead is a plane, flying lower as it heads into Heathrow, as Sherlock climbs out of the cab and steps up to the empty shop. Once a thriving business, now a requiem of days gone by.  
  
Moriarty is already sitting in one of the restaurant booths, looking quite at home despite the utter silence surrounding him. The place is hidden by a layer of aged grime – what was once bright red and shiny chrome is now flat gray dust. The jukebox's front plastic cover is warped and yellowed with age, making the song titles within indiscernible. Only Moriarty's booth looks clean – that's what underlings were for.  
  
Sherlock looks at Moriarty's custom tailored Westwood, noting the slight crease along his wrist – a blade strapped to it. He is likely never unarmed unless his snipers are present, and in the absence of red dots, with a knife handle creasing Moriarty's sleeve, Sherlock feels confident they are truly alone.  
  
“These places remind me of everything we're not.” Moriarty remarks indifferently as Sherlock sits down across from him. Dark eyes surveying the lanky man's alabaster skin.  
  
“We're not meant for either.” Sherlock replies, the fifties motif and the present day both out of sync for these mental dynamos, these intellectual anachronisms. They lock eyes and both have a cool nonchalance juxtapose their real demeanors.  
  
“Conditions.” Sherlocks states with all the tact of a lawyer.

Moriarty nods, his teeth appearing as the corner of his mouth stretches from boisterous elation.

He is aware he does not need Moriarty physically. John made that painfully obvious – what he has ignored for these many years he can continue to ignore without complication. The occasional wank would more than do for Sherlock Holmes. He does not need anyone physically.  
  
Mentally, however, Moriarty is an equal like no other. They do feed off each other in a parasitic relationship that Sherlock cannot fail to see – Moriarty creates destruction and Sherlock sifts through it, making sense of it for the lesser folk. His is a chaos like no other.  
  
He tries to imagine a relationship at both ends of the law and finds it difficult. Not that surprising considering how odd he found regular relationships, let alone something as convoluted as this. Imagining them playing house like a normal couple is also a joke to Sherlock Holmes. Still, it does not stop that one reoccurring thought – such a bond no matter how would, and already is, pushing his mind into so much thinking it was almost ecstasy.

Sherlock's had a longstanding problem with taking risks in order to give his brain the chance to focus and flex. His history as a drug addict makes that plain – an addictive personality. Cocaine is not his drug of choice – cerebral occupancy is. Something that could take control of his mind and send it soaring, although that something is rare in this germane world. Always feeling the most alive when solving a complex case, something that exercises his brain. Moriarty occupies him in that way. Thus, he is considering this...  
  
That, and Moriarty – Moriarty is an orchestra; commanding, classical and yet aggressive with its blaring drums, clashing cymbals and trilling aria. That does not mean Sherlock has to observe the show, but he finds himself drawn to Moriarty's particular tune. Moriarty makes John look like background music in an elevator. Yet Sherlock Holmes needs both men, each for their own reason.  
  
“We agree this is solely for.. entertainment purposes.” Sherlock begins, voice a touch clipped as he feels a strangeness within him. Like every nerve in his body all begin to vibrate gently at the same time. Anxiety, Sherlock recognizes– strange, he has not experienced that emotion since the incident at the pool.

“Prearranged. No weapons.” Sherlock continues, noting his enemy's expression. No look of surprise. “This is between the two of us.” He dryly comments. Not only secrecy, but they could not have a repeat of the Semtex-laden vest at the pool.  
  
“Don't worry, Sherlock. I don't like to share.” Moriarty's eyes have never looked so wide and opalescent. They make his irises appear dark, pupils dilating – he has expected this conclusion, but not so quickly, extrapolates Sherlock. They can both surprise each other, when very few others can.  
  
For several moments they regard each other carefully, unable to decide how to proceed. There is a heavy air of suspicion – both wondering if the other is playing some sort of dubious game. Neither can easily settle into their new roles, not when the role of antihero and arch-rival has been so engrossing and automatic.

“Right so.” Moriarty gives him a smirk without any accompanying snideness. “We could go play chess, or talk – maybe about your childhood, Sherlock?” Inquires Moriarty with an amused grin, his eyebrow raised jovially and his Dublin accent all the more pronounced. His voice takes on that fake playful allure, “That's where they say it all begins.”

“My parents were unimpressionable people.” Sherlock is aware this game is unsuitable for them, yet neither is willing to risk upending their flimsy starting connection. A thread might snap between them if either moves too quickly, both men become actors. It's not at all unfamiliar given the dance they have been doing up until this point, but not what either wants from this encounter. “You can imagine having Mycroft as an older brother.” The younger Holmes remarks rather stoically.

“No, rather I can't.” The mention of the older Holmes brother makes him smirk drolly – not surprising to Sherlock, who has expected Moriarty to have had many dealings with Mycroft in the past and now reads the confirmation in Moriarty's expression. The British government is a perfect place for a criminal to dip their hands in, well, any government is, Sherlock supposes.

For an instant they regard each other silently – the aura of uncertainty heavy between them as the air of animosity has still not cleared, thick between them like London fog. Then Moriarty chuckles, “Playing games of small talk is beneath us, but I had to try - Your lineage is low level aristocracy. The most prominent being your great uncle Horace Vernet the artist.” His fingertips drum along his knee under the table but Sherlock can tell by the twitches in his arm muscles, “I've done my research.”

“And I mine.” Sherlock expects nothing less from either of them but does not list his information in return – knowing Moriarty is a child from a good home with one sibling, male. A nefarious family history to be sure but nonetheless publicly above besmirching. Graduated from the University of Durham with a degree in mathematics. Instead Sherlock makes it clear that he knows all this with one simple comment, “I enjoyed The Dynamics of an Asteroid.”  
  
This admission has sent Moriarty's teeth to appear like a hungry lion, delighted by what he has heard. Sherlock has read his groundbreaking study in astrophysics, and he is touched.

Instead of continuing with boring details they take the opportunity to progress as best suits them – talks of science, starting with Moriarty's own book and branching outward with one tangent after another, until they are both awed by the breadth of knowledge the other has on that particular field.

Moriarty gives Sherlock a few mathematical riddles, amused by the detective's expressions as he works out each problem in seconds when most people would take an hour. Brain teasers follow, although using such a label on their elaborately baffling puzzles seems unfitting; serpentine mental contests is more apropos. Neither man succeeds in hoodwinking the other, but when Moriarty's phone calls him away both men leave feeling fulfilled.

Sherlock is aware of the upset John will feel if this is found out – but Moriarty seems willing to make this strange private agreement work. The villain walks away without Sherlock giving chase, and Sherlock walks away without threats or a red dot to follow his body. The thrill of their secrecy and the delight at having an analogous intellect to talk to won out in the end. _Besides, it is not as if anyone could be harmed from our encounters_ , Sherlock thinks, _no more then usual.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information on their pasts comes from Doyle-canon. This is what happens when I make these characters have small talk..
> 
> Kudos if you understood the duel meaning to this chapter's title! ;D


	6. The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

CHAPTER SIX - The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire  
  


 Two days later Lestrade texts him with details of a peculiar domestic case. Not at all the usual level of murder he is used to, but the details are perplexing enough to appear promising – a baby repeatedly turning up injured, despite being kept from his mother, who beat her stepchild, and in shame locked herself away. Baffled, the forlorn father sought Holmes' superior sights.  
  
Given that the family resides in Sussex, and that the problem is a level three at best, John agrees to go in Sherlock's stead. Armed with his laptop he boards a train without delay. Based on the information provided by the Detective Inspector, Sherlock has already formed a theory, which is proven right after a few minutes - clinched when Sherlock spots through the webcam the stepson's vulgar expressions as his father held his injured little brother – The stepson had grown jealous of the newborn's ability to soak up attention, and the woman felt unable to tell her husband for fear of seeming like an evil stepmother archetype. Sherlock had not even needed to climb out of his dressing gown to solve that one. 

The father, Mr. Ferguson, cut John a large check that would serve as a couple months' rent and his work was wrapped up. John Watson would be two hours away from returning to Baker Street. Disgruntled about the dead-end case, Sherlock got to his feet and made use of the shower while John was out.  
  
How Moriarty knew that John was out, given the fact it was over a domestic dispute not within the reach of his criminal claws, was assumed by Sherlock to be CCTV footage or an informant at Scotland Yard. The former villain sat comfortably, a tea tray already laden with a warm kettle in front of him, when Sherlock reappeared after a shower to wash away the irksomeness of his last supposed-case.

“We said prearranged.” Sherlock's words are casual, downright aloof given that he found the man nestled in his living room. The lack of greeting feeling usual between them.

“John's out, Sherlock.” Moriarty's words imply that is all that matters, playful yet edging on whining. It unsettles Sherlock to consider how quickly his preferences are thrown aside, even if logically the madman is correct that John's absence is one less impediment.  
  
“I never gave you permission to come here.” Sherlock tries to sound even with an undertone of anger. “Tell me this – how often will you disobey our agreements?” The inquiry is made with a dry voice, as if bored of Moriarty's games already, though he is anything but.  
  
Moriarty wets his lips before replying, feeling his pulse pick up. “Until you punish me.” He is flirting with such obvious delight and goading.

“You do realize I could call Lestrade.” Sherlock points out to settle down the Irish psychopath.  
  
“But you wouldn't – no fun there. Give me an hour.” Says his nemesis, these little conversations do not fool Sherlock into a false sense of security. They are for occupying his mental faculties, not flirting. Sherlock watches as the slighter man recline back in one of the comfortable chairs a few feet away.  
  
“May as well call me Jim now.” He looks up at Sherlock through lashes, a simple ploy but it is working enough that Sherlock has not entirely been put off by the attempt.

“Jim?” Sherlock replies, testing it out without hesitation. It feels odd thinking of this man as anything but Moriarty, the malevolent maniacal villain. Still, as the well dressed man in front of him is wearing a very un-Moriartyesque look of light, calm pleasure, he decides to run with the name in an experimental fashion.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Jim?” Sherlock attaches the name to his sarcastic comment, but it bears not a drop of the hinting acrimonious tone used in his prior words.

Moriarty places his cheek against his palm, elbow leaning comfortably on the arm of the chair. “Can't I just come and see you, Sherlock?” His eyes close and he looks somewhat smaller now, the visual perception aided by his shorter figure sitting down. “I get so.. bored.”

Sherlock had sat still through the question but nods slightly to show his comprehension of fathoming that boredom. For a moment he thinks he catches sight of apprehension in Moriarty's eyes. Idly he walks to the couch and sits down, diagonal to the shorter man – a sound location that he can survey the other man from a respectable distance, and still within reach of the door for an escape route. He does not think he will need it, but planning has never served him poorly in the past.  
  
Sherlock quietly poses a logic puzzle and watches the way his enemy's eyes dance while solving it. It only takes seconds, but they look so animated. So they begin a back-and-forth similar to their first friendly encounter.

For a little while they try diverging into other topics for the first time – Moriarty is well informed with politics and smiles at Sherlock's obliterating ignorance on the subject. Sherlock tries to get his enemy to indulge him in a lengthy discussions on types of tobacco ash and general tells of ash, yet, while Moriarty is informed on snippets of the science of deduction, his is a broader view, the depth nowhere near on par with Sherlock's.  
  
Moriarty rights himself and straightens his back, turning to throw a murderous riddle at Sherlock, “You have a dead body in a room locked from the inside. Only peculiarity is a puddle of water.” His voice rises an octave, “Cause of death?”  
  
“Obviously suicide.” Sherlock gives him a glaring look that any others would frown at, John would have rolled his eyes at it, but Moriarty is sent into a fit of smiles by it. “Ice slabs – hanging.” Murmurs Sherlock. They continue chatting with that subject and spend a few minutes debating the merits of Poe's The Murders in the Rue Morgue, one of very few fictions Sherlock has read. Both appreciating one more commonality between them. More tangents are sparked, creating everything from vigorous debate to Moriarty's over dramatic teasing, until over an hour has gone by in a flash.  
  
Not often one to entertain others, it is not until the end that Sherlock decides to seek some offering of nibbles. There are a few minutes spent rummaging around the poorly stocked kitchen before Sherlock returns with their best offerings – tea, and a few fresh in-season strawberries John had bought.

Sherlock carries a teacup with three strawberries on the saucer to his former enemy before settling back on the couch with just a cuppa. Both wait for some metaphorical shoe to drop, but it does not. After a moment of quiet in the flat Jim ignores the steaming earl gray in favor of plucking up a red berry and coolly sliding it between his lips. The fresh juice runs in a ruddy stream heading diagonally, downward against the shorter villainous figure's chin. Aware that Sherlock is, and has been, watching him, that devilish head tilts back a fraction of an inch – a mere alteration of degrees.  
  
What he observes should not elicit such a response, juice escaping from a mouth unable to fully close while eating – messy Jim Moriarty that is all, but Sherlock is aware something is happening inside him all the same. The white heat of Moriarty's teeth, biting into the blood red fruit and tearing into the white veiny tendrils inside stirring his mind. Jim Moriarty's chin has an inexplicable hold over his attention.  
  
With a delicacy that belies a passion boiling below the surface Jim spies a napkin and rids himself of the berry's juices with a few light pats. Sherlock knows Jim is aware of these.. _physical appropriations,_ that he is trying to seduce the detective, but he refuses to bend so easily _._ _One does not need to travel to find a vampire,_ thinks Sherlock, who is amused by Moriarty, and perplexed at the fanciful quality of such a thought. Perhaps James Moriarty is indeed bringing out a greater flexibility of his mind, an unforeseen but not altogether unpleasant side effect.  
  
The well attired man with oiled hair stands to leave after giving his face one last dab with the napkin, knowing John is due and unlikely to appreciate the sight of master criminal Moriarty taking tea at 221b. He takes a detour to the couch, plopping down with a little more care than Sherlock, but not by much. Now beside the detective, just like John had been. Moriarty has an expectant look on his face, eye lids widening to make an unspoken point to Sherlock. The consulting detective angles toward the consulting criminal, intrigued by the look on Jim's face, feeling overcome with nothing more than a desire to study it.

Suddenly they're kissing. The span between not kissing and kissing seeming like a photographic blur. Sherlock knows he caused it, once he realized what the look in Moriarty's eyes had been asking him to do but the rest seems immediately deleted. Just those eyes remain in his memory. Almost desperate a look in fact.. It takes so little for the passion to grow between them, their touches growing fervid as a brush fire. Moriarty's hands roam along Sherlock's broad, thin shoulders while the less-sure detective settled his on Jim Moriarty's knees.

When they pulled away it is only out of the human need for air that even their great intelligences cannot find a way to stop. Both are panting, but Sherlock's comes across as huskier. Moriarty's breaths are shorter, the motions of his body punctuated by the light sheen of sweat forming around his temples. Sherlock notes a dark look in his eyes, but nothing like the past ones he has seen - No villainous firmament ensnares it, just heady lust. From that moment on he thinks of this aroused man as Jim, not Moriarty.

While they revel in the aftermath Sherlock is observing Jim's face, and Jim is studying Sherlock's aural eyes. Jim sees an exhilarated look - he knows that Sherlock is fully alive, not bored or merely surviving, but living in that moment. He leans in for a final light brush of lips, then walks out of the flat before John returns.

* * *

  
  
During the next week John notices a strange change in his flatmate. Minor, but something John cannot miss after living with Sherlock for so long, the way roommates are wont to do. Instead of ignoring his mobile phone Sherlock rushes at every sound it makes (changeable Jim Moriarty got a new number, likely finding it easier to stay hidden that way). The technological device becomes attached to Sherlock like a physical extremity.  
  
There are one or two times when John arrives home and swears Sherlock does not look himself. Not quite flushed, but his usual pale color seems tainted and his eyes appear hazy. It sparks John to 'clean house,' or in reality search the apartment in case Sherlock is in a drug binge, but after a wasted afternoon he finds nothing except cigarettes in Sherlock's slippers.  
  
Twice John has caught Sherlock looking up rather sophomoric websites with teenage dating advice. It is the pages on kissing that catch John's eyes more than anything. Now the doctor is concerned that their one-off kiss is consuming too much of his friend's mental ability.

Even without Sherlock's inferential skill he cannot help but notice that there are two teacups in the sink more then once. The detective has certainly proven strange to live with, but most of his queer habits are known to John by now and this is not one of them. Sherlock is by nature a lackadaisical creature when in-between cases, and using a new teacup for a second cuppa is not his usual behavior, John knows, so why would he start now?  
  
“Sherlock, why are there two teacups in the sink? Someone come by?” John inquires cautiously. Perfectly alright for Sherlock to do, perfectly normal, and that was why it seemed so odd to him. John had never known it to happen in all their time living together – he was always the one to invite people round, not Sherlock.  
  
“It's an experiment, John.” Is all the answer the detective is willing to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was not going to post this for a day or two, but after my first comment how could I not?
> 
> By the way I think it is clear from my spelling that I'm American - hoping to nail it anyway, but if I make a mistake please let me know but don't hold it against me. :p


	7. The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

  When Jim is with Sherlock their microcosm is the only reality for both overwhelming geniuses. They use any desolate location Moriarty finds fitting; some empty looking apartments with flat-pack furniture, out-of-the-way hotels, and, rarely, the flat at 221b. The strange private realm that Jim and Sherlock create grows. 

Sherlock tries to avoid overlapping his world of Jim with the real world – the world of cases and John's friendship. He and James Moriarty have not talked about cases at all, aside from minor egotistical jabs about the past ones – they've talked science and philosophy, they've swapped facts, inferences, and criticized the lesser world together. It's not a rule, just not interesting enough to merit their time – or maybe they do not want to touch what they once were and continue to be. Whenever Jim talks murder, it is in a logical puzzle way, outside the two of them. They love convoluted puzzles. One puts a quandary to the other, hoping to be the first to prove himself the smarter via outwitting his opponent. Neither has done so yet.  
  
They play chess often, a seemingly calm game between them. Once Jim makes the mistake of bringing Risk and after arguing over the rules with Sherlock they give up. Cluedo goes much better, with Jim entertaining Sherlock's more fanciful theories than little cards could ever hope to match, so Sherlock wins that game by what Jim calls creative default, but the game is not brought out again.  
  
Despite being at this odd relationship of sorts for a month, discussions and (legitimate) games have been all that has happened since their first kiss. Still a bit perplexed yet intrigued by the entire situation, Sherlock says nothing about this lack of physical contact nor does he attempt anything during their first month. 

So when Jim shows up at his door after John's gone to see his sister Harry, Sherlock lets the malevolent man saunter into his living room. The narrowed eyed detective lets his gaze sweep across the slender man's gray Westwood, picking out various clues about his day. Some he can pin down, others he does not want to and ceases contemplating further – there is no need to know what Moriarty was doing in a cement factory, so he says nothing about the bit of plaster on the shorter man's round tipped black dress shoes.  
  
Leaning back in the large comfortable mauve chair Jim sets a shoulder bag down and removes a laptop. It is expensive, a recent model judging by its physical makeup, and Sherlock judges from the startup time, without much data.

“Check John's blog.” Remarks Sherlock who is curious about new cases – John left for Harry's in the morning, which was the last time he checked. It has been days since their last case.. surely there must be something.

“Why, think I got up to something when you weren't looking?” Jim teases with a faint smirk, setting the laptop down on the coffee table in front of him. “Ta.” He nods and takes the offered teacup from Sherlock, who sits in a chair across from Jim.  
  
Jim sets down his tea, leaning back with an appraising look at Sherlock. He knows the detective has a thought but is not yet willing to voice it. Those gray-blue eyes scream when he holds something in, the act so abhorrent to his nature unless the detective is manipulating. “You're wondering why I brought this – I just have a little something to do.” Sherlock's brow raises curiously, almost expectantly. “It's nothing to do with you.” The same shaggy brow drops down, now disconnecting after those words.  
  
While Jim leans back in his chair, taking up his tea at last, Sherlock reaches his hands out and snatches up the man's laptop. Jim barely bats an eyelash, letting Sherlock take it. Sherlock knows there is nothing incriminating on there (not enough data, and not like Jim Moriarty to be so careless). Sherlock also knows that Moriarty is more or less amusing himself, but it still inspires a strange trickle of foreign emotion inside him that Moriarty shares his laptop right from the start. John still gets finicky about Sherlock taking possession of his laptop.  
  
  
His elegantly long fingers slide over the keys in deft motions, taking his first guess at the password –  
  
username: Moriarty  
  
password: Sherlock  
  
  
Incorrect. Odd.. Sherlock thought it would be that – something simplistic yet a nod to their relationship. Jim would not bring a truly valuable laptop with a complex code. Sherlock thinks for a moment before it hits him and he tries again, this time with success.

  
username: Jim  
  
password: Sherlock

 

The laptop finishes loading personal settings after accepting that combination – Jim's background is a CCTV still of Sherlock. This does not unnerve or surprise the detective but something else strikes him as queer.  
  
“You're already on our wifi.” Remarks the observant man with a slightly questioning tone. He will not outright question Jim if he can help it – the giddy satisfaction on Jim's face is always a large, smug pill to swallow.  
  
“Fancy that..” Offhanded, genuinely casual. This is not a new feature, nor technology that strikes Jim as impressive. Just another use of technology beyond the public's grasp, another way Moriarty can be close to him in tenuous obtuse way that only Jim comprehends.  
  
Sherlock carries on checking John's blog and his own website. No new cases. Sherlock sighs heavily at the barrage of nonsensical comments that do not contain a single real case. Lestrade has been quiet lately.

The best moments are these with Jim, so he goes to fall back into the present, where he finds Jim already working to bring him there. As the detective was distracted, Jim had walked over and sat in a chair beside Sherlock.  
  
He stays there for a moment before checking his wristwatch and telling Sherlock they should go to the couch. After a brief moment's consideration, Sherlock does and Jim follows quickly. The slender villain is scooting close, Sherlock expects another kiss but is surprised when Jim's head does not angle upward. It stays parallel, and when his arms slide around Sherlock's shoulders and Jim snuggles against him he realizes the shorter man is hugging him instead. A surprisingly soft hug.

* * *

  
  
When John arrives home that evening Sherlock is supine on the couch, staring into space. Despite utter stillness his mind is not empty, it is accelerating beyond the speed of light to try and fathom Jim's peculiar depths. Though his flatmate has done a great many strange things during their time together, he has never seen Sherlock gather up all the pillows onto the couch just to lay on them. John's eyes roam over the strange scene and he notes that there are two nicotine patches on each arm – which confounds John, who knows Sherlock is not on a case. What could possibly be a four patch problem?

However, John has a matter for Sherlock's attention and the detective is removed from his mental computing via the new presence in the room. After a glance Sherlock knows this man is John's patient – his hand is freshly bandaged in a firm yet unstiffling grip, the gauze is overlapped by a little more than half which is John's usual, and end has been connected by a left handed person. Judging from the man's posture, a slight slouch, and the mingling expression of curiosity without anxiety, he trusts John – authority figure, Doctor-patient relationship.  
  
“This is Victor.” John announces in a tone that says Sherlock, behave.

“Yes, your patient.” The man makes a surprised gasp and Sherlock gives him an irritated look. A man with a bandaged hand walks in with his flatmate, who is a doctor, really anyone could have made that leap even without knowing precisely how John wraps injuries.  
  
John gestures to the recumbent figure still lying back relaxedly, though now Sherlock's stare rests solely on the newcomer - Gaze flickering over aspects of his life easily read on his body. “This is Sherlock Holmes, try to put up with him.” The latter comment said more lightly as the militant doctor offers a seat to the man with a wave of his healing hand. Instead of walking in to prepare tea John stays with Victor, unwilling to leave him alone in Sherlock Holmes' grasp.  
  
“I'm a consultant hydraulic engineer. Funny that, two consultants.” Mr. Hatherley says while sitting down, trying to make polite small talk before his storytelling.  
  
“I am the only consulting detective.” The comment has an air of arrogance that Sherlock makes both cool and scathing in one breath. “Details only please, and quickly.”

“Right then.” After a cursory look at Doctor Watson for confirmation that this was normal, which was given in a steady eyed stare, he continues to explain. “I was called in for a job that seemed too good to be true...”  
  
“That should have been a clue.” Sherlock remarks, deep tumbling voice unflattering.  
  
“A recent job of mine that led to..” The man lifts his bound hand and the message is unmistakable; There are only four fingers, his thumb has been severed at the base. The gauze wrapping and his sorrowful gaze indicate it is recent, some shock remains. “They had some funny conditions – picked me up at the station and drove me in a car with tinted windows. I've not seen windows tinted from the inside before, Mr. Holmes.” The detective rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.

Given the way Sherlock has been looking at Victor, like he is beneath him in intellect the way a human looks upon an ant, it does not surprise John to hear his guest's voice tense, “I was suspicious, but the money was too good for a single job.”  
  
“I called Detective Inspector Lestrade. I told him to wait until I had spoken to you – I was hoping you could make sense of what happened first.” John informs Sherlock, out of necessity but mostly to assuage Sherlock that a case was coming so stop sniping at the victim.  
  
The consulting engineer's story is puzzling but Sherlock has deduced the cause by the end, he just requires some confirmation. The case is thus: Victor rode for several minutes (Sherlock approximates the distance to twelve miles) without being able to tell the direction they were going in, where he arrives at a small flat that appears nondescript, and is led inside where he observes a hydraulic system in place, as he was commissioned to do. However, while testing the pumps and their speed pushing water into the nearby large tank, he discovered what he was requested to look at – a harmless hydro-pump, has something amiss. It is simplistic, unlike those he has seen, and though his employer described it as broken it is only stopped up by a clog in the tubing leading from the reservoir. Clearly based upon the set-up, the man is not a molding manufacturer and has lied to Victor. Now fearful of what he had gotten himself into, Victor Hatherley sought escape only to be caught while fleeing, and a chase ensues. The chase confirms his fears of foul play and in an effort to free himself Victor jumped from a window. His thumb hacked off while he hung on desperately, and after losing consciousness from the fall he awakens to find himself in some shrubbery near the train station he was picked up at. Immediately he sought medical attention for his thumb, from his Doctor, John Watson.  
  
Sherlock Holmes has listened attentively, not moving aside from the occasional eyelid flicker or twitch of facial muscles to express his interest or dislike in one aspect of the tale or another. By its end Victor Hatherley gives a nod and waits patiently for a response.  
  
“Take me there.” Sherlock informs the pair waiting on his words.

* * *

  
People pass by the moderately well-kept shrubs lining the wall of the train station. Nobody notices the dots of blood lingering on the foliage like fake mistletoe berries. Except Sherlock who spots it immediately and quickens his pace, arriving beside the bush before John and Victor catch up to him. Drops of blood, from when they threw him here.  
  
John moves by him, the militant doctor taking Victor inside after telling Sherlock they should check the CCTV footage to see the criminals dropping off the unconscious man hours earlier. Sherlock observes the pushed back brush, the clear indentation where all the leaves sunk down and branches snapped to support Victor Hatherley's body. The leaves are pushed down fluidly, a force applied from the right side thus the former employer had walked in from that direction. Without waiting for the others Sherlock takes off in that direction – with no intention of walking twelve miles...  
  
A quarter of a mile later he comes across a series of flats matching the vague yet generic description given to him an hour earlier. One house has its windows drawn, and judging from the weeds sneaking up out of the cracks within the front walkway – standing up tall and proud – few people walk in via the front door. The house is a sham. Sherlock decides to approach from the back.

* * *

  
  
John and Victor had quickly sought out Sherlock, noticing his departure but not catching up to him in time. They only became aware they arrived at the proper location by the sound of gunfire. John reaches for his pocket, looking back over his shoulder, “Stay here.”  
  
Heading inside is painful – John has to put weight on his bad shoulder while trying to break through the front door. Anticipation growing, but his breath is steady, as is his trigger finger. Sherlock runs in with both guns blazing, never looking to his own safety, and John knows this all too well. However, John was also a soldier, and this was not the first time he had heard gunfire around Sherlock Holmes.  
  
There are noises of a scuffle just below him and a door slams open to John's right. The light haired man takes aim and shouts at them to stop, firing when they do not. The powerful sound echoes within the near-empty house. No bodies fall – the hallway is short and they only needed to dart out for a moment. John moves to chase them but hears a familiar voice groan below him. Without hesitating he gives up the chase and turns to find the open door is an entrance to a stairway into a basement.  
  
Sherlock Holmes is getting up slowly, thrown against a heaping pile of unlabeled large white plastics bags full of some yielding grainy mixture. When John arrives he catapults himself from the bottom of the stairs to offer the detective a hand, wrenching Sherlock up. Sherlock's voice sounds raspy, as he had when nearly strangled outside Soo Lin's, “Did you catch them?”  
  
“No, I came back for you.” John takes a glance at the room around them – first noticing tall leafy green plants, the leaves finger-shaped with large compacted buds just off the stem. Against one wall was a large rectangular table with a number of powders and beakers strewn throughout at various stages of crystallization. They had found a hydroponic cannabis growing operation and cocaine manufacturing – Hatherley's private commission was unwittingly to a drug dealer. John only gets to look around a moment before shooting off up the stairs to chase after them.  
  
Sherlock is behind the soldier a minute later, and they race through the flat. The slap of their feet stopping once they reach the back door, finding it thrown wide open. The criminals long gone. A moment later there is a deafening explosion from within.

* * *

 

When Sherlock and John run out to the front as the fire crackles within Lestrade arrives, bringing police crawling all over the place. No suspects apprehended at the scene. John can see Sherlock's face set a stern emptiness, and knows it is because he rarely loses like this.

“Why did you take off?” Victor sputters when the two men approach him again, both have their eyes riveted to the burning building, though Victor is looking between it and Sherlock. Inside is a secondary ignition, followed by the sound of breaking glass ringing out. For a moment the three men just look at the flames flickering through holes where windows had been until heat shattered them.  
  
“You weren't there when I turned around.” Sherlock's voice suddenly answers, garnering the attention of the other two. In spite of the questioner, Sherlock is looking at John when he replies. The detective sounds put out by the lack of attentiveness from his companion.  
  
“We were checking the CCTV footage..” John says, incredulous yet not surprised by both his flatmate's mental prowess and disregard. What John and his patient had seen was two men – one was the man who had hired him, Victor confirmed – on either side of an unconscious Victor with an arm around his shoulders, carrying the man along and then making it look like a casual fall. They laughed off something, obviously about drinking given the glass raising knocking 'em back motion of their hands, and they walk off. Victor's injured hand is under brush, people walk by what they think is just another drunk.

John Watson has a quick word with his patient, tying up the loose ends of the case before checking in with Lestrade. When he returns and says they can leave the detective just begins to walk away.

The cab ride home is equally quiet. Once back at 221b they move up the stairs without the usual vigor in either of them. Only once inside does John broach the subject he wishes he did not have to, but must for the sake of his friend, “Sherlock, did you take anything?”

“Search me if you want, John.” Sherlock replies dully, voice a touch quieter than usual. There is a sticking quality to his words that puts John off, but his friend's addictive personality trait is well known. Worst of all, he cannot help wonder why Sherlock was a moment or two behind him during the chase – it could have been getting his breath back, but it also could have been taking advantage.  
  
When John Watson rises to his feet and approaches his friend the heavy air between them seems to only affect him. Sherlock stands waiting, going so far as to spread his arms like this was a police pat down.

The militant man tries to keep his thoughts professional while they wander systematically down his friend's figure. John wets his lower lip and apologizes, “It's for your own good.”

Instead of feeling relief when he finds nothing John feels perplexed, looking to Sherlock with surprise. He pulls open the younger man's dark jacket, checking the pockets to be certain nothing was missed. Holmes' narrowed eyes study him from this close vantage point, the feeling not deterring Watson although he is at the end of his quest.

“Good.” John says plainly to announce his finished search, putting the matter to rest although he is confused as to why Sherlock would not sneak something when he has been in a spell of hot-cold moods. When Sherlock Holmes leaves him standing alone in the living room, John's concern still remains with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments keep me writing by feeding my soul!!  
> Also I started accepting prompts on Tumblr. Huzzah!
> 
> WARNING: The next chapter alters the rating of this from Mature to Explicit!  
> You hath been warned ;D


	8. The Adventure Of The Second Stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: NSFW CONTENT. Explicit. This chapter contains graphic depictions of gorgeousness. NSFW CONTENT. You have been warned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> Double the length of a normal chapter, but these two don't go easily - You can hold a gun to the detective's head to lead him to water, but you can't make him drink without analyzing it first - or however the saying goes.

CHAPTER EIGHT - The Adventure Of The Second Stain  
  
  
Another evening where Sherlock locks himself into 221b as if practicing hermitage, while John is out with Lestrade. Sherlock has been to the pub with the two of them before, and it is better for everyone involved if they do not repeat that, in case another such incident occurs.

This time, however, he is curious as to whether John's departure will trigger Jim's appearance. It is glaringly obvious that Jim has always had a watch on their flat at 221b, the maniac knows when John is out. Sherlock lingers in the living room of the flat for the first half hour after John leaves.

A soft creak on his stairs lets Sherlock know his inference is correct; Too heavy a footfall to be Mrs. Hudson, too light and slow to be John. Roughly a 5'8” individual of medium build by the sound of his steps - definitely a 'his' from the shoes. Sherlock's deduction is proven right a moment later; The ex-villain does not bother knocking, which should unnerve Sherlock but does not. Queer how his emotions were behaving, going against his expectations and the patterns made in the past.  
  
Moriarty's attire is an onyx Dolce & Gabbana suit, the jacket laid over a silk pinstripe waistcoat and crisply pressed trousers fit to his lithe body. Given the way it clung to his small but firm frame it was custom tailored. A trio of neat silver cuff links adorned each sleeve with small sapphire gems in each center. His tie is another gray silk mottled with a pasty blue, expertly tied by hand Sherlock can tell. “You're not busy, are you?” Jim's voice drags over vowels and brings a playful cadence into the room with him.

“Jim.” Sherlock's voice is always serious, but this time it has an unpinnable heaviness about it that slows the addressee's movements. Jim looks upon him with greater curiosity lighting up his dark gaze. “I've been considering you..”  
  
“Awfully sweet of you.” The first syllable is emphasized, Jim flirting more openly then ever now. Their privacy seems to embolden the madman.

Sherlock is sitting back in his low square leather chair. From his seated position he studies the man over steepled fingers. “Why did you give me the sobriquet The Virgin, to our mutual friend?” He purposefully elects to use a benign, vague term to refer to Ms. Adler.

Since discovering Moriarty's desire of having an emotional attachment to him the past events had been viewed under a new microscopic lens, further magnifying them. Sherlock Holmes felt he had passed the test Irene Adler set before him on Moriarty's instruction - He did not sleep with her.

Saving her had nothing to do with emotionality – well, not in that way at least. She was a complex brain worthy of sharing the room with Sherlock. Letting such die was like watching a Van Gogh go up in flames. Sherlock saved a piece of art and nothing more. Jim understood and they both mentioned her without any tension. A bit surprising given the volatile nature of the Irishman, but the two unparalleled men have a peculiar understanding.  
  
“An appropriate epitaph, don't you think Sherlock?” Jim Moriarty's Irish trill is purring in that half sensual, half dangerous way that lets the detective know he is not taking the question seriously.  
  
“You cannot possibly have records of that nature dating back that far in my personal life.” Points out the scientifically minded man. There is no plausible data for Moriarty to base that suggestion on, aside from inferences.  
  
“The way you read a person I can read a sex life,” Jim drops the flirting, if only for a moment. He decides to take up the chair opposite Sherlock, over dramatic voice shifting into softer tones, “.. and yours was renounced years ago.” His eyebrows rose into neat twin arches, crafting faint lines in his brow and cheeky parentheses around either side of his lopsided smile.

Jim rises from his chair and walks over to Sherlock's. For a moment the detective tenses as if reminded of their past skirmishes, but Jim slaps his prayer-like hands out of the way and relaxes. Gracefully Jim allows himself to sit down on Sherlock's lap with a grin brimming with cheekiness.

The criminal expected Sherlock to be all angles given his lanky stature, but the man's thighs do not feel anything but welcoming; Firm yet just that touch of yielding to be comfortable. He enjoys the tacile sensation for a moment before ending up pushed onto the floor. Sherlock is glaring at him, “I'm afraid you won't be relabeling me today.”  
  
Jim Moriarty stretches one leg out on the floor and lets the other bend to rest his elbow upon it, surveying the detective from below. The psychopath is not put off by the rough treatment, if his fixated grin is any indication. “Someone likes playing hard to get.”

“I don't play.” Sherlock's response is nearly snide, rolling over the word 'play' like it is some abhorrent cocktail of letters.

“Not even with me?” That higher pitched voice came out in faux coquettish play as Jim reaches out a hand and runs it up one of Sherlock's thighs. He can feel the detective's skin tense underneath the finely made trousers. The mad Irishman's eyes narrow deviously, adjusting the angle of his body to face Sherlock. “Haven't you wondered what it would be like – turning off your mind?”

With this close proximity Sherlock can see his eyes are not as dark as they always appear. That softer ring of amber brown lures him in. Temptation incarnated in an expensive suit is becoming. Instead of indistinct, what allows Moriarty to move fluidly in crowds, Sherlock finds his qualities more unique with each passing visit.

“Letting all those..” Jim licks his lower lip, voice growing quiet without losing that sensual hint of emotion. His bent leg slips down, body shifting. His hand begins to move back down along the detective's thigh, “Harrowing thoughts..” The consultant criminal's weight moves to his knees, as he slips between Sherlock's, now kneeling before him. Jim's voice slides to a whisper while adding his other palm to Sherlock's untouched leg, “Just go.”

When Jim slowly leers forward Sherlock remains impassive, but the lack of rebuking is telltale enough. Both men stare each other down with interminable focus, until Jim's lids begin to fall slightly. Moriarty takes a slow inhale of the well fit jacket, the detergent trying to blot out Sherlock's own exquisite musk is strongest of all. “Let go,” Repeats the villain now fallen between his former enemy's spread legs, voice sensual instead of deadly silk as he leans forward. “Sherlock..” Inches from the detective's chest one moment, before a sudden surge of energy that closes the gap and lays Jim's tongue against Sherlock's clavicle. “.. Holmes.”  
  
With the top button on Sherlock's forest green cotton blend thrown open, it is easy for Jim to bypass shirt and get at flesh. Letting that lascivious tongue flick across alabaster skin causes the consulting detective's breath to pick up.

Feeling a need to explore, a need to engage instead of sitting idly by, Sherlock's hands lift off the armrests and begin to touch Jim. He makes a pleased murmur against the taller man's neck when his greased locks are pushed aside by intrusive fingers. The detective's elegant spindly digits work their way down his nemesis-turned-companion's body, slowing along his back. Given their position, even now leaning forward, he can only reach just beyond Jim's shoulders. Hand slipping down a few inches below them, one of his brows twitch curiously.

“Sherlock.” Jim says suddenly, his voice a soft huffing now. The lanky man above him murmurs incoherently. “I can hear you,” There are equal parts measured annoyance and bemusement to his voice, “Deducing above my head.”  
  
Sherlock says nothing, but makes a barely audible noise of irritation coupled with indignation at the accusation, even though that is exactly what he is doing. The looping path his hands took along Jim's sleek yet firm shoulders and as far down his debauched back as he could, was like a field trip.  
  
Jim sighs in a defeated manner that Sherlock is certain is novel to his ears, before acquiescing by saying, “Off you go then.”  
  
Sherlock's lips curl back slightly and he nods, pulling back an inch separate from Jim. The villain still kneels between his legs with hazy eyes. “This dip,” Sherlock's violinist's fingers find the dent in Jim's back and trace down along it. “Is symptomatic of a baseball yet is distorted, and too large in diameter, making it an injury received as a child. Given its unpopularity here and your family's good fortune I can assume you've gone on holiday as a youth to the States.”

“Entirely true but hardly the point.” Jim reaches a hand out and cups Sherlock's cheek with surprising tenderness. “Will I ever turn that dazzling mind of yours off?”  
  
“Improbable.” Sherlock murmurs, stiff under the gentle touch.

The lips that had been adoring his neck moments earlier now tremble as Jim starts to laugh breathlessly. “Nothing is.” That voice almost sounds like a lingering threat with Jim's seductive drop to it. So easily able to go from laughter to scintillation, Sherlock nearly believes he is capable of nearly anything. Nearly.  
  
Jim closes the gap again, lips parting to give Sherlock's neck a suckle while his hand slides down Sherlock's hallowed cheekbone to the other side of the ample expanse he is teasing with his tongue. With his hand continuing to descend, those crafty digits freed button after button on the detective's crisp white shirt, baring more of the gorgeous flesh to his wanton mouth. Finally he hears a soft exhalation from Sherlock.  
  
Then Sherlock turns his head away, trying to catch his light breath and it only takes a moment. This is simple animalistic behavior, something he tried as a teen but never took to and resigned himself to ignore. Yet here, now, it is affecting him. Jim is doing something to his body, he feels his skin aflutter against his wishes.

Sherlock moves to stand, effectively pushing Jim off him and sending the slighter man sprawling onto the floor. Despite being on his back rather suddenly, Jim now has a smirk to go with those lustfully animate eyes. Sherlock tugs the front of his black jacket settled snugly on his shoulders, as he always does when he rises from a chair but with his shirt open to that hairless pale expanse it gains a new eroticism. The detective moves to walk away when he suddenly feels a swat on his buttocks.

Ignoring the stirring of sensation, Sherlock continues foward into the kitchen to make tea. Jim does not need his prowess to read the tension steeped in those pores. A flip of the electric kettle switch is all he gets to before Jim approaches him from behind. “Admit it, Sherlock. You want this.” The promise of heat is lacing that effrontery statement like each word is soaked in gasoline.

“If I did, I would not be making you tea.” The detective licks his lower lip, noting that it is a bit more plump than usual. A side effect of Jim's teeth that cannot be brushed off or neatened like a suit jacket.

Jim gives a brief half-hearted chuckle, too aroused to find it terribly funny but it still struck the psychopath. “Now you're just being sweet.” No sensuality in his compliment, just temerity. He walks behind Sherlock and settles his firm hands on the taller man's waist, taking advantage of their unequal heights to lean up and swipe the other man's nape with his tongue.

Instead of a response the younger Holmes brother shakes him off as easily as one bats away a fly. Just like that common, annoying pest, this not-so-common one resurfaced with greater vigor. Jim's grip hardens the second time around.

Dutiful to the decision to take a stand, Sherlock focuses on the counter in front of him. He pushes more nonchalance than he feels into his words, turning around to pointedly stare, “This is not a physical affiliation but an intellectual one, Jim.”

Jim fakes consternation like a beautiful model; Mouth thrown open, those eyes wide to show off his milky whites instead of only the darkness, and the most attractive lines flowing and curving around that face. His expression is embellished for Sherlock's benefit, and they both know this.

“I would not.” Rigid in mind, Sherlock's aloof expression only begins to slide into something more. Something yielding ever so slightly to Jim's appealing visage, even if verbally denouncing it.  
  
Jim leans in and Sherlock only scowls, but does not stop him nor push Jim away. The shorter man whispers alluringly, “Morality might sting for a little while, but I promise I can make it go away.”

The kettle whistles and Sherlock strides the two steps required to reach it, taking the opportunity to break away without thinking. For once the tight fit of his clothing is not comfortable. As soon as the two cups are filled a tug comes to his jacket – Jim has grabbed him from behind and is holding it, effectively holding him in place. Sherlock turns to glare at him, tipping the kettle and accidentally splashing the table with the weak-beige colored liquid. Putting down the kettle, he quickly beings to wresting himself out of the jacket just to escape Jim's grasp.

“You're ridiculous.” Spats the detective petulantly, moving again but only getting to take one step. The man he has been dancing around now presses a firm bulge against the back of his thigh, settling his hands on Sherlock's waist around the front. Sherlock's hand gives an involuntary motion, sending one of the teacups askew and releasing a small wave onto the countertop. Without pause Jim drags his squared palms down the neat black trousers to brush over the detective's semi-hard arousal. Sherlock's eyes instinctively half close.

“That's the biblical truth, Sherlock.” Moriarty's low voice has singed each word before they drop from his lips. All the temptation of the devil rests in that single articulate Irishman palming Sherlock.

Jim cannot help but push Sherlock toward the hall separating the kitchen from his bedroom. He manages to get them a few steps before the detective spins around with a mildly irritated gaze among that clouded passion neatly tucked away inside. It is not the forgotten kettle that Sherlock is bothered by, it is Jim's insistent pushing that their association traipse across carnal ground, and himself – because he is warming to that volatile, erotic, offer.

Front-to-front in a battle of swirling amber against gray-blue impassioned fury. Every last lick of heat in Jim's body seems to have pooled into the erection now protruding against Sherlock's inner thigh. Jim's gaze takes an animalistic turn, hazing over slightly and dropping down the snowy expanse of skin before him.

Without trying to stop himself, Jim stands on his toes with insistent passion. Their lips collide together with the force of one of Jim's well-orchestrated car accidents. Instead of belligerent defense the detective mounts his own passionate assault. Those pale lips have parted slightly, enough for Jim to get his teeth.

From that point on there is no more discussion. The heated kettle now pales compared to the tempest of tongues between antihero and murderous nemesis. Feeling the detective acquiesce to their bodies' wants, Jim allows himself to tangle a hand in the ebony locks he has found himself craving.

Neither man is certain when they got into the hallway. This is not the first time either becomes too obsessed with one thing to see another, but never something so obvious. Both fight to pin the other to the wall in a rough attack while the real battle goes on between their mouths. The handle of Sherlock's bedroom hits Jim squarely in the buttocks and he reaches behind to grasp at it. The barely perceived movement sends them both stumbling through the now open doorway, lips clicking painfully against each other. Jim makes a muted gasp at the pain and Sherlock pulls away.

The faint flush gracing those pronounced cheekbones makes Sherlock look delectable. Both men are panting but neither stops. Jim's hands hurry to the detective's belt, tugging Sherlock flush against him before parting the fraction of an inch needed to slide the belt out of its buckle. Neatly manicured fingers fly to wrench the offending leather free and toss it to the ground.

Not one to be idle himself, Sherlock lets his violinist's hands play over the front of the shorter man's body. Jim was still fully clothed, but Sherlock makes quick work divesting the villain of his posh jacket before sliding his deft hands over the pinstripe waistcoat. Each button is another chance to caress the fine silk. Once freed the detective slips his thumbs into the hole of each shoulder and starts tugging it up.

Getting the hint, Jim lets go and adjusts his arms to let the garment drop to the floor. He cups the detective's cheek while Sherlock starts in on the buttons of his long sleeved white shirt, pulling them back together for a luscious kiss. Before Sherlock can get his shirt off, Jim has begun to drop Sherlock's trousers.  
  
The detective's legs are long and shapely, though he considers himself to have knobby knees. Unbeknownst to him, the shorter man finds him an opulent piece of fine art right down to his toes. In order to get to said appendages, Moriarty gives him a light push to swing them around and he tugs Sherlock down with him as his rear hits the mattress.

They grapple with each other as Sherlock rests in his lap, a mess of hands and chest against chest. Suddenly, with more energy and strength then expected, Jim half pulls half shoves the detective onto the mattress. The right corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upward for a second.

Jim stands and slides off his dark trousers, reaching into his pocket and throwing a tube of lube and a condom onto the bed first. Then he steps out of them, before swiftly turning to tug Sherlock's pants that last little bit down with his foot. The fabric rustles as it slides to the floor. Moriarty leans over to undo the laces on Sherlock's prim shoes, leaning forward to get another lip-lock as he does.

Sherlock lets him, feeling a strange intimacy with Jim working on his shoes, one that his pants did not give off. Their lips mesh together, cheeks brushing so that smattering of hair on Jim's face, like a teenager trying to grow out their first goatee, scrapes pleasantly against his own clean-shaven face.

“Having looked into your incandescent mind, I know it is one of the wonders of this world, but your eyes are ethereal.” Whispers Jim once he pulls back for breath, sounding like he will never have enough air yet still gazing at the detective, “You have auroral eyes, Sherlock Holmes.”

Once they're both down to just underwear – Sherlock's boring briefs, and Jim's silky black boxers – Jim climbs onto his companion's hips. A strange coupling to be sure, but one that feels right to them both; Jim in Sherlock's arms, between his legs, feels more fitting then a copacetic rhythm on his violin. Even if he knows deep down the man is evil, they just work together. Jim is.. debauched and consuming. He burns Sherlock, and the detective likes it.  
  
Jim's hands wander the bare pallid flesh, tweaking a light pink nipple. Sherlock flips him over, pinning the vociferous one into silence. At least until a bite from the detective sets loose a rutting gasp. Burning kisses completely take them both over, Jim starting to gyrate his hips to get a little friction for his tented boxers. He nips at Sherlock's lips, giving him a harshly passionate stare, “The world wanted you to be noticed – that phosphorescent gaze. Incandescent pale skin. Look at you.”

“Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me what you think of me.” Moriarty's hot voice is waiting on the edge of a whisper. His eyes seem to have come untethered, they disconcert Sherlock with the rawness of his perhaps former enemy's gaze.

“Brilliant..” Breaths Sherlock. “But a.. temperamental thinker, of a determinate disposition.” Sherlock speaks slowly, voice carefully appraising without actually praising any criminal matters. “A proficient, and at times transcendent, cognoscente of.. copious arts.”  
  
Jim leans back and lets himself get lost in the detective's wandering digits, letting out a soft chuckle that has an undertone of huskiness. “Sherlock, you do know how to make a man blush.” Moriarty is still flirting.

The shorter man's hand wanders across the unmade bed, seeking the small plastic wrapper and tube. Desire pushes through every breath until he finds it, clenching one hand around them while the other slides down Sherlock's briefs and palms the fully erect member within, not stopping when hips buck forward. He is better than Jim thought – hard and warm at once, longer than average in a way that is proportional to his lofty height, with that perfect velvet feel, hints of sweat, it all sends a groan through his throat. “I've waited too long for you.” Moriarty's breath trembles over the words.

For a moment Sherlock feels uncertainty over this encounter. Jim is willing with his back against the mattress and Sherlock leaning over him. Much as he wants it, it does present a novelty and there are questions he has no answers for. They did not plan this, but his concern seems to dissipate when Jim's fingers slide his underwear down and willingly those skeletal legs lift to let them fall on the floor. Copying the motion, Sherlock takes Jim's boxers off and feels satisfaction from the man's shuddered breath and the erection jutting out to him; Beige skin taking on a purplish hue with a spot of precum about the mushroom shaped tip.

There is little time for admiration with a fierce attack of tongue from Jim closing the gap between them once again. Both struggle to find something to slow their panting as their shafts hit each other's skin. Moriarty finally tears open the wrapper, tilting his head to the side to force himself to stop kissing Sherlock. He uses his hands to feel for the detective's shaft, rolling the condom on. When Sherlock raises a brow, Jim just smirks back slightly and squeezes lube into his palm.

The slick hand wrapped around the taller man's shaft swiftly ceases any more questioning looks. Jim works him up to the hilt before palming copious amounts on the enlarged head. With the genius' protected shaft thoroughly lubricated he wipes his hands off on the sheets and reaches for Sherlock's hips, bringing them together and rocking so Sherlock's shaft hits his buttocks. Jim sucks in a breath and spreads his legs apart.

Sherlock doesn't need the hint with legs already on either side of him but it helps bare Jim to his ministrations, letting the man's member slide against his supple flesh. Having never been this carnally close to another person, it rips a rumbling moan from Sherlock when the head of his shaft hits Jim's puckered entrance.

Jim rocks his hip and actually lets out a half whimper in desire, neck arching up off the mattress while his head tilts back. His tanned skins grows taut with anticipation and all Sherlock can think to do is lean down and place sloppy, hurried kisses against his neck. Jim rocks his hips a little more and pushes Sherlock's bulbous tip inside. The gasp let loose sounds almost pained but is anything but.

Only getting a fraction of the heated tightness, Sherlock pushes in the rest of the way until his sac hits Jim's pert flesh. The villain's legs quiver on either side of his. After one tentative, experimental thrust from Sherlock, Moriarty begins a fierce, mind-splitting gyration of his hips that drives the man above in and out of his body. Quickly, to keep the delirium alive, Sherlock follows the same rhythm with his own hips. Lava in his veins tingles down to pool just behind his stomach. The sensation drives any and every through from his mind – Moriarty was right, this did shut his mind down.  
  
Jim's gotten himself together now, enough to reach up and scratch at Sherlock's back. Still rolling his hips up to meet the detective's, not an ounce of his untamed enthusiasm lost. Soft moans are falling haphazardly from his lopsided lips, and though not as many come from Sherlock, there are a few dropping from that cupid's bow.  
  
Each thrust forces tingling sensations through Sherlock, starting at his buried tip and rocketing up his erection into his stomach to spread throughout the rest of him. He can feel Jim, feel Moriarty from the inside, and the man is all clamping passion, and hot pulsations from inner walls. Sherlock is not even vaguely aware that he is on his knees, thrusting into a man who he once called evil, and he loves every bloody second of it.

Unsurprisingly, the no-longer-virginal man does not last very long in the compressive backside. He thrusts in with a sudden jerking, no warning for either of them as the genius' milky essence is released within the condom's tip. Underneath him, Jim writhes as he feels it happen without his own release. The insistent man grabs Sherlock's hand even while feeling him shudder a little from the overwhelming feeling of it all. As soon as Sherlock pulls out Jim guides Sherlock's larger palm down, hissing when bare flesh meets his still swollen member.

It takes all but a few strokes before Jim Moriarty comes completely undone. He spreads his legs to bare himself to Sherlock's touch while his breathing runs ragged. Strangely, he reminds Sherlock of a baby chick, newly taken out into the sun, uncertain how to respond to its surroundings, although Jim is decidedly more aesthetically appealing. Beads of sweat running down his temples, shivers taking over his skin and limbs, and those pouting plump lips. When Sherlock's fist tightens he takes a dazed pleasure in watching Jim's back snap up, snow colored strands spurting between them.  
  
In the aftermath of their fierce lovemaking they still lay together, Sherlock only half on top now, letting the mattress support much of his weight. Limbs kept loose, frames lightly together for the press of their chests. Jim is still ravenously insistent though, his tongue lightly dueling Sherlock's. Always impressing the detective, whose longer tongue still became wound by the slighter man's. He fought for what felt like a long while, not wanting to give in to Jim or the lulling post-coital sensations.  
  
In the end Sherlock relaxes that one little iota, lower lip demurely lowering in defeat. Jim, who has still not lost any enthusiasm, lets his tongue rush into Sherlock's mouth and pillage hungrily, as if he had not just been satiated. Sherlock moaned low as the lithe feeling man sucks his tongue back into his own mouth. When Jim finally let up the detective opened his eyes to see Jim Moriarty lying beneath his chest, content yet smug - Smirking like the cat who sent out for a box of three dozen bonbon filled canaries and eaten the lot in one sitting.

* * *

  
When John arrives home he finds Mrs. Hudson bustling around their messy kitchen. Usually untidy, but now it had tea spilled across the table and an overturned cup on the counter – John's mind turns to wondering. Now one set-in stain from tea, John could understand; Sherlock is not clumsy per say but at times could be so oblivious.. but twice? Completely across their wooden table, too?

The mystery of the second stain perplexes John for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments would be quite loved... This is my favorite chapter =)


	9. The Hounds Of Baskerville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

**CHAPTER NINE** \- The Hounds of Baskerville  
  
Jim's locations for their meetings are always private but never sleazy. Motels are not Moriarty's style. There is always decent furniture but never anything long term. Sherlock can read that in the generic design and cheaper make of the furniture, and the lack of usage; Everything is always new, clean of course, yet without any personality. Sherlock has previously speculated that Jim throws everything away and rents a new location after each encounter.

Being that the man has obliged him with a well-cushioned couch this time, Sherlock lies sprawled out over it. One arm haphazardly falls down the side of the sofa, leaving the statuesque detective looking restless. Jim is looking out the window, fixing a set of pale baby's-breath blue curtains.  
  
“You know, if we had another two people we could play whist.” Jim jokes as he walks across the room, letting the smirk linger before dissipating. “We could get Johnny boy and his girlfriend. I'm sure he has a new one.”

Sherlock glances at him half-heartedly. Obviously both are well aware that John would never tolerate their strange idiosyncratic affiliation, let alone engage in the equivalent of a double date involving playing cards with Jim Moriarty. Also, John does have a new girlfriend and Jim has always been watching the flat – no news there. He looks away without a response, knowing Jim will take it as a sign he is bored, and Jim never wants Sherlock to be bored. Yet this time the flow of conversation does not alter.  
  
“Really, Sherlock, what do you see in such a normal person?” Continues the criminal in a droll voice, accenting the word normal with the same cartoonish disgust as he usually reserved for the word boring.

Up arches one shapely expansive brow as John's existence in Sherlock's life is questioned for the first time. Jim's little quips have always been side notes, but this time he is directing it at Sherlock. Staring at him, Jim comes to a halt and peers at the detective with a beady stare. Such a daring in his gaze that it leaves a rumble in Sherlock's chest and stirs him to throw up an arm in a meaningless gesture.

“He's just so ooordinary.” Tongue lashing over the adjective as it rolls. Jim quirks one corner of his lips upward, making a clicking sound under his tongue as he sits on the far edge of the couch. He has to pick up Sherlock's feet to do so, but hardly minds setting them on his lap and toying with the detective's bare toes. Every time the prone man tries removing his feet a harsh hold comes down on his ankles like a game of cat and mouse.

“You're acting ordinary. Come now, Jim, we both know you're more capable.” The retort is sprinkled with a gibe and a compliment to fully flex the criminal as Sherlock has learned he prefers.

“Honey, you have no idea what I'm capable of.” A wide close lipped smile begins to spread while a dangerous gleam comes to that dark stare. For the first time since their exchanges became more physical Sherlock felt apprehension from that nefarious voice.

“What do you suggest?” Retorts the detective, plucking up a rather well polished violin, an antique in exquisite condition. Not quite a Stradivarius but a model more expensive than anything he has ever thought to own. Jim had elected to get him something more interesting than simple flowers – this would let Sherlock make music forever - not some superficial thing that would quickly wilt and die. Although he has already spun an audible web with it earlier the timing seems suited and he begins to slide his bow against the taut string.

“Someone that makes the kind of music you do.” Jim replies with a slight sneer upon his face, smile tilting off to the side a touch.

Sherlock does not cease his musical ministrations as he looks over the elongated forehead, that slight dip of black hair combed into a widow's peak. Sherlock notices the physical symptoms of infatuation, before wrinkling the corners of his eyes with the realization. Such a soppy train of thought. Something to put a stop to. His reply is a touch icy, even for the cool detective. “I'm content.”

Jim huffs and begins to tap the pads of his fingers against Sherlock's toes. “If you're content,” The word repeated with disbelief and mockery, “Then why are you here?” Conceited triumph pans across his visage – it is not the where, but with whom.  
  
The violin's soft aria ceases before Sherlock's reply. “I require attention from you that John cannot provide.”  
  
The touch of stiffness in Sherlock's cool reply goes unheeded by Jim who carries on with his superiority. “What can John.. provide?” Lilting Irish accent curls seductively around the sentence's finale.

“Functionality.” Sherlock summarizes after a thoughtful pause, looking down the length of his body to the man perched at the other end. Jim makes a face that prompts Sherlock to elucidate. “John is a conduit.” To Sherlock, John is a grounding rod, for all the electric sparks that Sherlock's wild lightning storms throw are meaningless without guidance. John is his friend and his home in a peculiar yet rhythmic way suiting both men.

The difference between the two most important men in his life is clear - Jim is all consuming, Jim is fire. If he is always with Jim, instead of John, he would become unable to focus, because Jim is his focus whenever he is around. Cases would be forgotten and Sherlock would slip into a dependent binge much like his earlier years as an addict.

“I do think we have quite a spark, Sherlock,” Jim is relentless, as Sherlock suspected he would be. All the rationalization in the world could not make Jim understand why John is suited in one way, and Jim in another, yet without any competition of superiority in Sherlock's mind. To Jim it is always about winning, prompting him to push harder, “He's just so dull...”

“John is not dull.” The slight twinge in Sherlock's voice snaps at Jim just barely, yet the man gives Sherlock a narrow eyed stare as if he were barked at instead.

Moriarty grows quiet before launching off into some new subject. The discussion progresses away for the peculiar topic of his flatmate, but Sherlock knows Jim will not let anything go. Keeping Carl Powers' shoes for years proved that in spades, but he has no choice but to wait and see what Moriarty chooses to do.

* * *

 

The next week, and the one after that, something very peculiar happened.

Nothing at all.

Lestrade did not call once. The papers became empty of crime and instead took on more politics and social happenings to fill the void. Novel personable infringements continued of course – domestic disputes, petty theft, etc, but Sherlock's large scale criminal happenings completely ceased. Suddenly the only problems available in London were not worth Sherlock Holmes' time.  
  
At first it was seen as a quiet lull, nothing unusual, and things continued on – well, minus an explosion or two from some of Sherlock's experiments as he tried to fill the empty void left behind by no cases and no Jim. Of course the Irishman disappeared at roughly the same time, the prat. Sherlock's texts went unanswered, and no new summons came.

Finally there is one case with a harpoon that amused Sherlock for a few hours, but it is a brief respite. Not long enough to stop the mental atrophy at hand. Immediately he is overcome with an urge for tobacco, cocaine, Jim, or anything to make the senseless boredom stop. Sherlock's brain needs Moriarty desperately. Keeping his mind sharp requires constant attention, tunneling in new information. The madman is his cognizance's whetting stone, yet now he is growing dull. His mind is ripping his body apart in a fast spiral.

Then suddenly Henry Knight appears with one intriguing word – Hound. Sherlock, aware that Moriarty is throwing a proverbial tantrum, knew a case outside of London would be his only salvation. It was accepted almost immediately, and he and John left the flat.

* * *

 

“Look at me – I'm afraid, John. Afraid. Always been able to keep myself distant – divorce myself from feelings. But look you see? Body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions..” The cryptic message applied to the problem at hand, but it was so much more. Being on such a peculiar case where he could not trust his own eyes was bad enough without Jim's silence. Thus Sherlock reached out to his friend for solace in the dark. This case was meant to be an escape from Moriarty yet he could not shake the madman even by going as far as Dartmoor.

“Alright, Spock. Take it easy. You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have..” John pointed out without understanding the actual reason, though not comprehending Sherlock Holmes' mind never worried him before. He hardly felt such a thing was possible on a good day, let alone a night like this.  
  
(Scene from BBC Sherlock, credit where due)

* * *

 

Sherlock drove himself so severely that when the airborne chemical took hold of his system the face he saw was his partner in romantic entanglements, James Moriarty; The being that now tormented his mind. The man who took root within his every dull moment – and for Sherlock Holmes there were so many. It did not take a detective's skill set to realize what was haunting him.

 


	10. The Valley Of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gattis, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> I have attempted to work this in such a way that a reader of ACD ought be delighted, yet if you have not read Valley Of Fear this should not have too many spoilers.

When Sherlock left London it was to show Jim that he could not lead him around like a politician. Although Jim had only grown to adore the man more. Merely watching him roll over would not have been half as fun as concocting a new plot to ensnare the detective back into vices they both adored.  
  
Thus, there was only one more time that Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes would waltz together before their last song played. One case more brilliantly choreographed than any that followed, one that none could hope to compare to. John had seen fear in Sherlock's eyes one night, but he had no real idea..

* * *

 

Returning to London directly after the case was a bit difficult to say the least. It was newsworthy, which meant paparazzi all around 221b. Lestrade suggested they take some time in the country to, “Let the heat die down.” He spoke bemused, as if they were the criminals. “Besides, I have something you can investigate. Only been on my desk an hour.”

So, Sherlock and John head for the coast where a murder has been committed. Their destination is a small island, only reachable by ferry. The small locale is home to few residents, only a handful of mostly part-time businesses, and is presently the sight of a gruesome murder.

Upon arrival John and Sherlock are met by an overweight but eager young blond that introduces himself as Detective Inspector Baxter of the local CID. “Victim is one Sebastian Moran. Thir'y seven, male, Ca'casian, cause o' death gunshot wound to the 'ead..” He lists off more information, most of it useless by John's reckoning but it is everything that would be available – from army career, to shoe size, to university grades. Anything he seemed able to find – apparently he had heard of Sherlock taking a minor detail and flipping a case with it, so the eager to make a name for himself detective gave him all the possible ammunition possible. Finally they get to the meat of the matter.  
  
Peculiarly, the murder was explosively loud yet bears no witness – to the act itself, nor the murderer fleeing the scene. Only the aftermath is accounted for, and even then evidence is flimsy; The only person left behind is one Arthur MacGuffin, a frequent visitor of the house and lover of the recently deceased. Coincidentally, he is also the most likely suspect in the police's eyes due to the deceased Mr. Moran's will naming Arthur the sole inheritor, as Moran has no family himself. 

Sherlock breezes into the small manor home and moves adeptly through the throng of uniformed officials to make his way to the body. The sight is a stomach turning smattering of gray matter and blood in a disgusting explosive display across the posh Persian rug. Even war-hardened John has to take a slow inhale for his bearings before getting to the body. The cause of death is obviously a gunshot to the face, even the most ignorant layman. The two examine the body, with rapid glances in Sherlock's case, and slow methodical measures in John's.

“O'er here,” Detective Inspector Baxter gestures to Sherlock with an open arm. He is standing before the windowsill, befuddled yet curious. John catches the look of hope, that desire for Sherlock to illuminate some Rubik's cube solution in front of his eyes. Said mystery is a splotch of blood. Sherlock notes that it is round on the bottom and dark, well saturated into the plush cushion. It has been applied by a pressure point of the foot – a heel mark, suggests the telltale curve.

Sherlock opens the sprawling window, only to find it will jut out a very narrow foot and a half or so before sticking. Barely enough room for a man to fit through, and being right beside a cliff face on that side of the house, the drop would need to be a leap, as a straight down fall may not breach the rocky crag below.

“You are sure this is the right man?” Sherlock inquires to the nearby butler of the manor.

“Of course, sir.” Murmurs the ashen-faced old man whose spirits have been well shaken. “He has the Master's tattoo on his arm – a triangle inside a circle.” The man blows noisily into a cotton handkerchief.

Sherlock walks back over, kneeling beside the body for a moment, indeed noting that the supposed tattoo, actually a brand from a hot iron, is accurate in as much as the butler's description. Then after a seemingly cursory glance at the body he stands with a sudden flush of purposefulness, leaving John still stooped beside the body. A few officers follow after him like chicks to a mother hen. Within two minutes that sweeping pale visage returns with one queer addition – a boot, on his hand. The detective makes a beeline for the windowsill, lining it up in the air an inch over the bloodied mark so as not to contaminate it. They are a perfect match.

“Is that Arthur MacGuffin's boot?!” Cries a uniformed woman off to the side.

“No, it came from the bedroom of Moran.” Replies Sherlock with ease, a wicked little smirk settling on his face. Now this was why he had come here. “The victim flees from his own murder.” Sherlock gives a self-satisfied glance off to the side, “I told you it's possible in Cluedo, John.”  
  
Catching that glimmer in Sherlock's blue-grays, John merely sighs with resigned pleasure in knowing this will be another one of those cases. His heart is pumping rapidly as Sherlock moves with another flourish of coat tails and strides purposefully from the room.

* * *

 

  
“Arthur MacGuffin?” John inquires politely minutes later, apologizing for his loss in as respectful a way as a stranger can hope to. The dark haired man nods, shaking his head and sighing at a loss for words. Sherlock notes the lack of signs of grief – especially telling is Arthur's relaxed posture. He is not slumped or lackluster, but minutely at ease.

  
“Were you married?” Inquires Sherlock crisply, eyes narrowing a little to see if he might goad the man whose loved one had just been murdered. John considers it a strange first question for a grieving man and ogles him.

“No.. Never got that far.” Arthur gives a too-perfectly despondent sigh at the loss of what might have been any number of sweet possibilities. Peculiar, Sherlock thinks as he found a wedding ring, though there was no indicate in the rather thorough documentation that Sebastian Moran had ever been married. “Honestly,” Arthur continues, and Sherlock can read the aristocratic breeding in this man. “I just want justice for him.. That's what Sebastian would want..”

They talk a few minutes longer without getting much information, only hearing the gray eyed man proclaim his innocence as anyone would, and then the detective and his blogger walk away.  
  
“Bit too stiff upper lip,” John remarks, feeling less sympathy with MacGuffin whose sorrow came off as not the least bit contrite.

Though able to see possible guilt, there is nothing to confirm it. Arthur is hiding something that Sherlock cannot yet pin down with the data at hand. He knows better than to jump to conclusions, least of all to the obvious ones, and something with this case sits poorly in his gut. It is a peculiar feeling for Sherlock to experience an unexplained rationale – and rack his brain as he might, all that evening, Sherlock cannot not pin that subconscious thought down until after much later.

* * *

 

The island is tiny, with only one place to find lodging for the night. As the ferry only arrives twice a day John and Sherlock, along with much of the latter mentioned CID, take refuge in the only hotel on the island. The innkeeper is a jovial man with a long nose and hearty nature. He slaps John on the back while walking them upstairs to their quarters.  
  
“Haven't had so many guests at once! Shame ta say, but that Moran fella never came down here so I've no idea what sort of man the village ought mourn.” The innkeeper nodded with a forced politeness, “Kept to himself.. Right tricky when ya live here. Oh right, this'll be your room. We're full-up with coppers, you'll have to share but I daresay you boys shan't mind.”

There is that knowing look that makes John's stomach coil inward. His reaction is automation, “We're not..”

“Dunna worry, we might be out in nowhere but we aren't backwards.” He winks like they shared a merry secret and closes the door behind him. Sherlock and John are left in a double bed room.

“At least the Yard isn't here to see this.” John comments dryly, throwing his small overnight bag onto the nearer of the two beds.

Sherlock only takes enough time to step through the doorway and place his bag down on the ground of their room. “I'm going for a walk.”

“Sherlock, we've already-” John begins, exhausted himself and unable to fathom how the detective could have the energy to trample around a craggy island. With Sherlock a walk is rarely just a walk.  
  
“This is important John. I can do it alone.” Sherlock is so self possessed that John can hardly think up something doubtful to say before the detective moves to leave.

The door closes. Sherlock is as aloof and blindly driven as ever, yet John is once again reminded how very solitary he can be. As much as John is allowed into Sherlock's true self there are still some niches even unknown to him. The enigma of a man meanders through his mind while the militant man drifts off to sleep.

At some rough unknown time – the only indication the streaming moonlight from outside, solid ungradianted darkness in the sky assuring that it was still a late hour – John is woken by the sound of the door opening, attune to little noises at night. As he sits up he realizes that the tall looming shadow can only be one figure, “Where've you been Sherlock?” John grumbles sleepily, already brushing his cheek back against the pillow.

Sherlock steps over to the bed, peering down at his friend and confidant. There was a long silence that nearly had John drifting off again before he heard the man above him quietly inquire, “John, would you be afraid to sleep in the same room as a lunatic? A man with a brain going soft?”

John, thinking that Sherlock has gone off on another wild theory and either finds it too outrageous or found such a dead end that he has lost heart, replies steadily, “You, soft? Not on your life.”

“Would you, John?” Insists Sherlock relentlessly.  
  
“No.” Replies John to satiate him and get himself back to bed – it was three in the morning and it had been a long, eventful day – but he is still entirely honest. As John drifts off he is aware of Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed, getting lost in thought with his back to the sleeping ex-soldier.

* * *

 

This is what happened Sherlock to that evening on that cool night by the sea, that in a week's time, he will never look at the same way again...  
  
Leaving the hotel his options are few; One main road wings around the island with various branches shooting outward. Some better well kept than others, but Sherlock takes a less traveled road where the grass grows high in the ditches on both sides.  
  
Sherlock's footfalls cease for the briefest moment as he spies the seated figure in the distance. He notes his gait, keeping it measured to not have the increase noticed. Yet, when he gets close enough to look through the brush at the stone bench, it is empty.

At first he begins to question his sight. Then Sherlock feels a hand on his shoulder, a light, familiar pressure, along with fingers that rub ever so slightly. Always unwilling to sit still, always lively. “A distinct touch..” Sherlock murmurs as he begins to turn around.

“I'm flattered, Sherlock.” Comes the Irish trill proving Sherlock correct.

The black haired rouge is smirking from behind him, attired in a neat dark gray suit with silver embellishments along the sleeves. The moonlight attaches an eerily bewitching shine to his eyes. Jim Moriarty looks quite at home on the country road. There is something about the man that yields a chameleon effect, Jim appears at home everywhere.

“Well everyone has their first fight.” Jim offers as if that will suffice as the reason he has been missing for weeks. The reason crime stopped so purposefully, a personal attack on Sherlock that any other being would have seen as madness to consider.

“Not everyone ends theirs with a murder. I knew this was your handwork.” Dry, unamused, and yet secretly pleased to see the missing madman all the same. The discontent in his belly earlier now entirely justifiable in Sherlock's mind.

“Be fair, I've only just arrived.” Jim teases playfully, as if this was a romantic banter instead of a murder discussion. For Jim the two were in constant cahoots. His voice has that prickling quality of honesty that sometimes even Sherlock has trouble picking out.

“Shall we?” Jim gestures to a stone bench, sitting down and stretching his legs out in front of him, heels resting on the pavement with the toes of his shoes airborne. Slowly Sherlock walks and sits beside him, inquiring of MacGuffin with a hint of slyness to Jim, “What did he do to you?”

“I promise you I did not do a thing yet.” Jim assures, and the use of the word 'yet' has Sherlock on pins and needles.

“Allow me, Jonathan Wild, what do you intend to do?” Sherlock leans back and takes his time looking Jim over to read clues but as suggested Moriarty has arrived with today's evening ferry – well after the murder.

“Nothing of importance.” The eyes say lying, while Moriarty's smile is shark-like – he is out for his own, and does not care for the guppies being flattened in the process. “I am a man of many continents.” He hums under his breath, “Only here to travel..”

“That's the genius of it.” Sherlock said slowly. “Isn't it, Professor Moriarty?” His tongue scathing, almost teaching contemptuous depths the likes of which Jim had not heretofore heard. “You have a respectable persona, and you never dirty your hands with crime. Nobody can touch you.”  
  
“But we both know the truth to that.” Jim replies, playing with him even still, under some veil of half seriousness. He places his hand on Sherlock's knee and squeezes gently.

Though already excelling at observing by normal standards Sherlock has only become more acute to certain behavioral patterns of Jim's from their increased proximity, and in this moment he reads something peculiar.

“What is so funny?” Sherlock asks tersely.

For a moment Jim is only able to stare with the faintest hint of coyness, one brow arching. “You have no idea how many characters I have, Sherlock Holmes.”

“But someday soon, you will.” The foreboding does not sit well in the pit of the detective's stomach. There is no tenable fact to lash a lifeline to, this was a feeling yet it shocked him. It disturbs him that Jim leaves without so much as a kiss. Emotions striking again..

* * *

 

 

The next day the police are in a frenzy – Arthur MacGuffin has vanished.  
  
“Why leave the morning after a murder, if only because he's as guilty as the day is long?” Remarks Detective Inspector Baxter as he paces. This seems to be the final nail in MacGuffin's proverbial coffin.

“It is a weird coincidence in timing but -” John begins to point out with a quiet semblance of rationale sense. Sherlock cuts him off before the collected sensibility in John's statement can appear.

“No, John. Nobody has been able to leave the island since the murder, and at the first opportunity he has left. I don't doubt that he has been collected.” Bewildered, John mouths the word 'collected' in silence but nobody else seems as hung up on Sherlock's choice of words. To most of them he always sounds a mite strange.

“We'll have to send out an international alert to track MacGuffin down..” The heaviness is palpable at the idea of the case getting into tricky territories like extradition and inter-country legality.

“That would be remarkably pointless,” Sherlock informs him in what John knows is a wind-up to the brilliant conclusion.

“What're you talking about?” The detective inspector of the island is still not following Sherlock, as many people often have difficulty doing right away. “This is a murder investigation!”

“Oh no doubt, Detective Inspector, but not the one you think given that Sebastian Moran is alive and well.” Remarks Sherlock with his dry, barely palpable vanity as he reveals the painstaking fruits of his labor. 

The few police officers that have gathered are stunned by Sherlock's claim. A couple stare at him as if he has just suggested Elvis is still alive and living in rural England with the cast of Last Of The Summer Wine. Sherlock does not let their ignorant gazes muddle his flow of thought.

“The body is that of Arthur MacGuffin – obviously a false name.” There is a bitter sarcasm which John recognizes as a loathing for their lack of thought, the untapped potential in all their minds. “The real Sebastian Moran was the man we met, impersonating our true victim.”

Sherlock continues while they are all amazed, trying to process the turn of events. “Nobody on the island has met either of them, their documentation leaves no photographs, and physically they are similar enough in build. Add to that the gunshot making the face indistinguishable and you have an easy window of opportunity in which to swap identities and escape.”  
  
“Nice theory, but how do you prove it?” Mutters the only less-than-awed officer.  
  
“Moran had enough knowledge of me to know to leave false clues; He wanted us to believe his murderer jumped from the cliffs and drowned – via the bloodied heel print- he was not so foolish to think you would miss all the signs, only the important ones." Someones makes a murmured sound of disagreement at that dig by Sherlock. "Also the body we examined had an old wedding ring when neither Moran or MacGuffin have been married. MacGuffin's history only begins a few years ago – that, with Moran's will, is why you all suspected him immediately. Thus it is MacGuffin's ring from a marriage before this new alias. Obviously, Moran would want his money back, he will leave it to himself.”

“The tattoo – you don't just find a load of men running around with the same brand.” Continues the cynical figure. Instead of disturbed Sherlock eyes them with interest, as they are indeed one of few brains that seems to be thinking. Unfortunately, they are not thinking on as high a caliber as he.

“The brand is a mark for the underworld. It would be on the same part of the body on all followers of a particular syndicate.” At last the room is fully gob smacked by Sherlock's discovery, “By the time the autopsy came back he would have been out of the country, with Moriarty's help. Clearly they managed that, but Moran cannot get away with his identity theft.”

“Nothing points to Moriarty.” John admits, knowing the villain's flare to be known now. As far as John knows, neither of them have heard anything from their archenemy for months.

“I know this is his doing, John – and now we know where Moriarty is, so will Moran be.” Sherlock finishes, turning away from his friend. The crime is solved, a baffling murder in the shortest of respites, yet John can tell Sherlock fails to have that post-case satisfaction. He is immediately back to inattention and mental corkscrews.

Now in a flurry of activity the small inn is a hive of phone calls, paperwork and raised discussion as they begin to piece the mystery together from Sherlock's deductions. It is their task to gather evidence, but Sherlock walks away with little hope they will accomplish anything. Moriarty meant to provide an easy out for one of his minions, and the devil had slid under the radar and done just that with this smoke and mirror show.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day!! Please let me know what you think via comments & include whether you read the original VOF or not!


	11. Before The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After letting Moriarty loose at the end of Hounds of Baskerville Mycroft delves a little deeper into tailing the villain and finds something surprising..

Though the evidence did not corroborate Sherlock's story, neither did it refute his claim. Sherlock's past record of cases backed him up enough that the police looked into it. Of course, the autopsy proving that the body was not Moran's was what clinched it. Thus he and John were set to return to London post haste..

  
“I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think, in the CID, that you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over this Moriarty.” Laughed Inspector Baxter, having driven them to the pier. He began to wave once they were on board, and was still waving when the ship blared its horn and moved away.

* * *

  
John looks out across the sea at the dot that is the island, leaning his forearm against the railing. The waves careen against the bow rhythmically. Something is odd but John cannot put his finger on it – though he knows it is something to do with his flatmate and the case. Sherlock seems a touch unhinged but has bottled up his emotion so well that John cannot tell what is going on under that ebony crown.

  
“Coffee?” John asks, holding out a Styrofoam cup to his friend.

Sherlock has been staring at an indistinct point on the deck, back to the scene around them. The look on his face is too similar to his middle-of-a-case deducing expression for John to understand it. “The case is over, isn't it Sherlock?”

“What?” The pale detective looks up then nods after the question is repeated. “Of course, John.”

“You don't look like it's over.” John sits down on the bench beside Sherlock. It is a touch misty out, and only a few other people ride the ferry. Most are below, safe from the elements, but the two men sit up on deck. When Sherlock says nothing John continues with a shake of his head and a note of admiration in his voice, “I still don't understand how you knew it was Moriarty."

“He is an orchestrator – a maestro of crime.” Sherlock mumbles quietly, only half hearing John and the doctor can tell. Their last encounter has planted a seed of discontent within him. A strange sense of foreboding as irrational as taking five crows as a bad omen, Sherlock was sure, but the emotion lingered just the same. No amount of rational thought could dislodge Sherlock's uneasiness.

John clears his voice doubtfully and Sherlock narrows his eyes slightly, “Who else would have told Moran to leave the bloody footprint?”

“I don't know – but if you murder someone and are willing to let them assume your identity, you must be willing to do other things to protect yourself.. Like tampering with evidence.. Maybe he did it alone – Moran I mean?” John notices the way Sherlock rolls his eyes, and is perplexed. He and Sherlock have felt on more solid ground in terms of equality, so why the disdain for John's thought? “What is it?”

“Nothing.. Interesting theory.” Sherlock says quietly, clearly meaning the opposite of his words. He forces them out without any sarcasm before setting his untouched cup on the seat beside him.

“Maybe it's not Moriarty.” John said out of sheer hope – the less of the madman, the better.  
  
“It is.” Sherlock replies immediately, certain of it.  
  
“How can you be sure?” John continues his query, finding the end result of their investigation bewildering. Everything that Moriarty is directly involved in has had some grand dramatic flourish.

“I know, John.” Sherlock is dead-set in his mental deductions, but this is beyond his usual arrogance; This is not pride in a deduction but knowledge of a fact. John's expression only becomes further confused.

“But we haven't seen Moriarty since..” John trails off, noticing how Sherlock looks away from him. The man is an enigma, but a few flicks of facial muscles raise John's hackles. “Did you find a clue?” John asks slowly, trying to think through this bewitching puzzle.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head slightly, still deflecting John while trying to let his thoughts fathom out Moriarty's peculiar intentions. Sherlock realizes he now understands how Lestrade felt dealing with him during that drugs bust. He and Moriarty are similar enough for it to be plain: childish geniuses, playing with grand, dangerous toys that left moribund tastes in their wake. In a way this had become a game, and now Moriarty has shown his hand. Sherlock knows how far he would go, what he would prove, to capture Sherlock's attention, his interest.  
  
When Moriarty offered to burn him, he was really offering to burn down the world for him. The almighty gesture was not lost on Sherlock, but it is too chaotic, too wild. If this is what Jim does to remind him, what would happen on a bad day is clear.. If that happened could Sherlock forgive Jim like he has before, when dozens had been killed - an old woman right as she spoke with Sherlock? There is no reason to test their tenuous bond that way.

“Sherlock?” John must have been talking but he does not hear it until his name is being repeated. Sherlock looks up with a blank enough stare that John just sighs and shakes his head, “He hasn't texted you again, has he?”

“I saw Moriarty.” Sherlock announces as abruptly as he decided to share it with John. The man is his one and only confidant, but now is the time.

“Not like you did before, with the hound?” John is having trouble following exactly what Sherlock means.  
  
After the detective shakes his head no, the doctor's eyes pop at the sudden understanding washing over him. “He was there?! Why didn't you say anything earlier?” John is incredulous to this new development.

“It would have been too late, John.” Sherlock remains composed though he does not look at John.

“But if he was there!” He may not have Sherlock's inferential prowess but John is a far more social being. Sherlock's expressions are small, but telling, and the averted eyes make it clear that there is far more underneath that foggy comment. “Has this happened before, Sherlock?”

The man will not answer – which is, in and of itself, an answer. John needles a touch further before giving up and contemplating this peculiar case. There are so many unraveled threads still lying before him. The murder might be solved, but it seems to have only stirred up more questions.

* * *

 

Once back at 221b they find themselves joined by another presence – the posh lengthy black auto idling outside only makes Sherlock's expression grow darker. He recognizes his brother and preemptively raises his hackles on the march upstairs.

The hawk nosed man is already up in their flat, sitting down with a cigarette in his hand. The nearly finished cancer stick tells Sherlock that Mycroft has something important to say or he would not have waited. It tells John that the matter is serious.

His older brother wastes no time in setting in on him with that silken Holmes voice, “I'm sure you know why I'm here.” His grip on the expensive onyx tipped cane tightened. “I know you're unorthodox but this is a bit extreme.”

John looks between the two and gives Mycroft a demandingly inquisitive stare. In response the government man pulls a thick envelope onto his lap and takes out a photograph. The image is a touch grainy from being blown up, but has more than enough detail to make out.

John's lips part as he silently mouths a question that gains no traction. He cannot begin to understand how there is a photograph of Moriarty waltzing into their flat. “When..” John finally manages with stifled confusion, “Did Moriarty get into our flat?”

“When Sherlock let him. I'm surprised you didn't know about this, John.” Mycroft replies dryly. Though disturbed by what he has learned the mysterious elder Holmes has composed himself and his thoughts long before arriving. Mycroft's eyes fall disapprovingly to his problematic little brother.

John shakes his head in refusal of the evidence before him – to John all it proves is that Moriarty broke in. He throws it on the tabletop. “Sherlock has done some odd things, but he would not let Moriarty into our flat.. without a reason.” When the sentence began he was certain but at the end he kept tacking on more words to help him rationalize what was going on. “A good reason.”  
  
Mycroft removes another photograph, a view from across an apartment complex that looks into one window specifically. There is Sherlock at the window bare chested, and the dubious figure of Jim Moriarty behind him. The villain has one arm wrapped around his supposed enemy's waist, peering over his shoulder.

John picks it up with widening eyes, trying to create any number of reasons other than the obvious as to why Sherlock and Moriarty would be standing together half dressed.

“Aside from the list of security threats I could rattle off, what will Mummy think?” Mycroft murmurs slowly with deadly seriousness. His body is still, and his eyes have only become more critical.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sits down calmly. The revelation blows John away. Sherlock suspects that Mycroft would like nothing more then to jump out of his chair and shake the sense back into him. “I remain committed to stopping him if that is your concern.”

Though it was in part, about the security of the nation, as is Mycroft's job, his familial obligations struck a deeper chord. “This could destroy you.” He leans forward slightly, voice sharp as the edge on a knife, “What if you're playing into his hands?!”  
  
“I've given him no evidence relating to any case.” Sherlock is professional and stiff.

“This is... true?” John looks up from the image, giving Sherlock a slack jawed stare with hurt eyes. He shakes the image, “Why him?” If Sherlock Holmes had outed himself as gay John would not have cared. Any other man would be fine, but.. Moriarty?

“I've told you before, I get bored,” Sherlock mutters dismissively. His voice has put up an extra wall for this conversation. Sherlock is willing to take huge risks not to be bored, and John knows this; He found out the night he watched Sherlock put his life in jeopardy by almost taking the pill offered by the psychotic cabbie. Moriarty, now that was a risk he could not resist.

John finds that the most incredulous part of all - this is all part of staving off another bout of boredom. Another battle in that eternal war with mental stagnancy. His reactions in the past have proven that boredom is a deep chasm in Sherlock's mind, but its depth still amazes John in this moment. Sherlock Holmes is cavorting – there is no other word for it in John's mind – with a man out to destroy him. A man with a penchant for destruction and disregard for human life - even be it children or old women.

Right now all John Watson can see is that Sherlock Holmes is being unbelievably selfish.

“Pick up a book!” Yells John exasperatedly, finally snapping from the tumult inside him. He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head as he speaks, “No, Sherlock, you can't do this.” John's voice drops down quietly, palpable with emotion yet trying to be steady, “I put up with a lot of bollocks from you but not this.”  
  
“Neither of you can comprehend this.” Sherlock arrogantly replies, looking away from the two angry eyed men. The convoluted relationship he and Moriarty share is entirely unrelated to their positions in society. Sherlock understands these are two different affairs – he can never imagine John or Mycroft accepting that.

John screamed at him, “Then explain it to me, Sherlock! It's Moriarty!”  
  
“Exactly, John.” Sherlock says with that irritatingly level head and stoic expression. “I would need eighteen hours a day for a year or two to explain him with any hope of clarity.”  
  
Mycroft takes in a sharp breath, and his brother's eyes twitch in his direction. The elegantly attired man slowly rises, “James Moriarty may intellectually be at your level but his morality is not.” Mycroft leaves the envelope, and the photographs, only taking up his cane. He pauses with a final few words, spoken softly which Sherlock knows is as close to imploring as he has seen his brother. “Think on that.”

Sherlock rolls over, lying sideways on the couch with his back toward them. “You have no idea where my morality really lies.”

Mycroft's fist tightens but he continues out the door, having said what he needed to. The penny has dropped, and staying would only lead to a squabble. Besides John would be better at getting his brother to change, for Mycroft is aware that if he tries it will backfire, as Sherlock will only want to rebel against him like always.

John's anger is still boiling when Mycroft commandeers their attention to leave. He only just huffs, no goodbyes this time. Wrapping his mind around the shocking knowledge is a slow venture.

Sherlock rolls back over when Mycroft has gone, scowling but looking at John again.

Taking the opportunity, John walks over and sits on the coffee table. “Anybody else, Sherlock..”

“No,” The detective cuts him off stubbornly.

“Sherlock, he nearly killed me!” Patience breaking once again, the soldier lobs forth a fresh attack that seems like his most justifiable point.

"John he did that to get my attention, now he has it." Sherlock replies so swiftly that John knows he has given this thought. Of course he has. Sherlock Holmes would not have started something so bizarrely mind blowing without breaking it apart in his head first – perhaps knowing Sherlock better than most only made it more difficult for John to understand this, instead of less.

Instead of arguing the irrational if-then logic Sherlock is using John moves forward. "And what will he do to keep it, Sherlock?" John stares with a mix of challenge and woefulness in his eyes, a faint disappointment Sherlock can sense more than he can pinpoint with his mental laser precision of physical tells.  
  
"I prefer it this way." Sherlock says with that standoffish tone, careless of John to all appearances. He tells himself he is doing it because it is logical - and it is: quelling Moriarty to a dull smolder, keeping the people he cares for safe including John - but he is also thinking of Jim in his bed. “John, when you have sex, why do you do it?”  
  
Sherlock's response throws him, so John verbally stumbles before his tongue can properly gather the words. “Why do I..? Sherlock.. what are you talking about?”  
  
“It must be more than pleasure. Correct?” Unable to explain how he was certain that Moriarty would not use their strange relationship to his advantage – and after the trip to Moran's estate he was no longer certain – Sherlock can explain something else to John instead, and he thinks only John will understand.

“Enjoying is.. part of it..” John's verbiage still awkward from his inability to follow the sudden tangent he feels. “Someone you like spending time with, who can get your blood pumping..” He sighs, feeling doltish and stopping.  
  
“Yes, John,” Sherlock replies with patience. “I do not trust Jim Moriarty, but in our labyrinthine encounters I find solace and exhilaration at once.” The underlying meaning is clear – Sherlock does trust John, otherwise his back would still be to the other man.

Perhaps that is why John's anger abates enough to struggle forward, he can see the cracks in Sherlock's armor; The man is letting him in little by little. John sighs and folds his hands, “Sherlock.. He may be like you,” John quietly admits, “But you're everything Moriarty isn't.”

This is the closest that Sherlock supposes John can come to understanding. The lack of screaming does please the detective, who expected much more. Still, he knows John fails to see that Moriarty and Sherlock may be extraordinarily different, but James Moriarty is the closest that someone has ever come to being like him – truly like him – after a lifetime of singularity.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end! One chapter to go )= Comments are loved!!


	12. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything has been taken within the context of the show canon (written as the scenes happened), and expanded to reflect my headcanon. Hope it has been an enjoyable ride!

Cases continued and the matter of Jim Moriarty seems to have dropped. Things were a touch awkward here and there, but only for a split second before Sherlock or John would return to normal. At least for a few days – until Jim committed the crime of the century, and let himself get caught...

In that moment Sherlock understood that their roles were back to the way things were before – as enemies. When Lestrade shows them the footage, and John saw the message, he glances back. Mycroft must not have said anything because there is no questioning in Lestrade's gaze. John looked from the police officer to his friend, and Sherlock was slipping into his emotionless deducing mode.

* * *

 

The stoic detective remains impassive while the trial moves forward, too. John tries to get him to open up, but getting Sherlock Holmes to share is as impossible as getting Anderson to come up with a Sherlockian deduction. The matter of James Moriarty's queer relationship followed by a display of showmanship sits heavy in the detective's mind.

When Sherlock is called to testify he reflects strictly on Moriarty as a criminal. Though he could not resist one quip about their 'special something' and Jim's quick rising brows confirmed his appreciative humor. Yet Sherlock saw no affection in that look, just amusement like a spider to a fly.

 _Somehow this is part of his scheme.._ Sherlock thinks to himself, walking away from John. There is no question that Moriarty's motives are obscure, but not outside his range of ability to fathom. Given their unsettling final encounter Sherlock has been reexamining their encounters from the beginning, not just the trio of break-ins.

* * *

 

It is not until the trial's conclusion that things really come to a head. The tea party between Sherlock and Moriarty shows him just how far things really are. Sherlock offers him a chair, rather cordially in his opinion – and Jim turns it down blatantly. Their normal comfort level now corrupted.

The air between them hangs heavy for Sherlock's taste, though Jim Moriarty seems to be immune to it. Back to their acrimonious tête à tête where words are volleyed back and forth like lobbed grenades, instead of intellectual exchange. No longer purring to get Sherlock to play him a piece, instead insulting his musical prowess.

Jim's words are attempting to scathe him – calling him boring while seeming to have obliterated their trysts from his mind. That is what makes Sherlock realize that Jim has grown bored with him. This time their banter turns caustic as Sherlock realized Jim's intention – this technological skeleton key code. “And you were helping..” Fairytales – their relationship was always just a fairytale..  
  
Yet Sherlock knows there is more, with Jim there always is. He even questions the man, “What is it all for?”

The words I owe you sting Sherlock, sounding so similar yet so opposed to the normal trio of words strung between lovers. When Moriarty leaves him, he spends the next few weeks stuck in a coma of deduction.

The distressing fact is that no matter how often the younger Holmes goes through the data, through their conversations, there is no telling when his companion had been Jim or Moriarty. They are two different people, Moriarty and Jim.

Moriarty has a touch of insanity amidst his malevolent streak running a mile wide, a being of such tact and precision with a carelessness for human life that even Hitler would commend. While Jim is an astute intellectual, creative and curious, with an interest in puzzles, an appreciation for hearing Sherlock play violin, and an affinity for the detective's kisses.

Sherlock is now doubting that they were ever mutually exclusive. Jim and Moriarty shared one thing from the start - a delirious desire for Sherlock's attention – but Sherlock wonders, _is there more?_

* * *

 

The strange cab ride with the Sir Boast-A-Lot video and the Richard Brook debacle are the final nails in their affair's coffin. Sherlock gets to watch the identity he fell in love with dissolve for a strange actor that appears out to destroy him. All part of a game. Sherlock's anger rings out as his lover pretends to fear him, to not know him, to have lived a lie. Suddenly Sherlock feels like he may have been living a different sort of lie.

* * *

 

Sherlock does not realize what the intention is when he texts Moriarty to meet him on the roof of St. Bart's. It is not about the key code entirely.. All he knows is that he has to go, to see the indeterminate man. Instead of a thirst for knowledge, for pure science, he feels emotionally urged to go and discover what the mad Irishman truly intends – one more chance to fathom their convoluted association.

It is standing there up on the rooftop that Sherlock Holmes has a revelation; Their relationship was not a meeting of the minds, it is destruction.  
  
 _No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will._

Sherlock is there to untangle Jim's masterpieces for the world to appreciate. That is all. His role is a subjugated lover. A farce, not a real relationship. Yet he cannot find any traces that Jim was false within his memories. The haunting failure of his deductive powers is like a constant hammering at the base of his spinal column.

 _I will burn the heart out of you..._ It was a powerful threat that lingers in his mind as Sherlock turns over its meaning. Especially cryptic in light of Moriarty's appearance in his heart, his sudden disappearance by choice, and now all this madness after the robbery.  
  
Moments when Jim Moriarty seemed like a villain, such as at the pool, he was in actuality being honest about his plans. Sickeningly honest, telling Sherlock he would eventually kill him, it would be special, because Moriarty would destroy his heart. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, pained, for there were also moments where Jim's laughter rang through his mind, Jim's panting breath whispering in his ear, and the face Jim made when he came.

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._ Sherlock had stated to Irene to rattle her, but it is true. Heartbreakingly true, distractive, and now he has the final proof because Moriarty has at last won.

Jim still teases him in the grip of Sherlock's wrath. In their final few moments together, he tarnishes what they had with his humor. “For me? Pleeease.”

 _I'm saving it up for something special..._ This is special by Moriarty's definition, this provocative retribution. Instead of a physical killing, he is doing something far more stirring – leaving Sherlock tortured, a hollowed out husk that must destroy itself. Sherlock is starting to equate the feeling with something less than an addict without their fix. He has not been aware such a low existed until now...  
  
For a moment Sherlock is more concerned with the safety of his friends. Torn inside, yet with people still relying on him. He tries to out think Jim and for the briefest happy minute he laughs as he thinks he does.

Sherlock honestly believes this is another part of their game. He replies, humorous, with a romantic line. Then he slowly reminds Jim that they are far too similar – they are unique among all others. Sherlock is no angel, and the stare into his eyes steels Jim with the finality of that statement.

Still feeling this all a part of their game, Sherlock watches Jim lift his gun and blow his brains out without warning. Shock overcomes him as he realizes he was wrong – this is real. Not a game. Jim truly means to destroy him. That is when Sherlock finally understands the conversation by the pool, that his heart is not John, it has become Jim. No, Moriarty... He is back to being Moriarty now, and in the end Moriarty has indeed burned the heart right out of him.. Sherlock is haunted by their memories. He turns in place, panting.

Jim has proven that he is the only one capable of stifling Sherlock's mind, and he could even go so far as to shut the whole system down, to cloud and obscure reality before the consulting detective. Sherlock can see that now and he understands the truth of the words _I owe you a fall.._ A fall in, and out, of love; To know glory before doom and dive from the precipice voluntarily.  
  
Jim succeeded. Moriarty won. Sherlock stands on the edge of the roof, out of commission.  
  
At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked this!!!!!
> 
> Yes, I know, sad! Much as I am a Jimlock shipper one has to be realistic when imitating canon, and we all know it would not be a happy-go-lucky ending between these two… 
> 
> I wrote this because I was saddened by the lack of substantial Sheriarty aka Jimlock fanfiction available. Just wanted to prove you can have some fun without ever leaving the original before you; You don’t need non-con or a ridiculous AU to bring Jim & Sherlock together, but most importantly, you don’t need to divert from canon too much to see a pairing – sometimes you just need to do as the title suggests... with a ton of the book canon thrown in and mixed around of course!


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